


Over My Dead Body

by Mellow_Yellow



Series: Z-z-z-zombies! [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Anal Sex, Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gallavich, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Smut, Zombie Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:24:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1968969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Ian and Mickey (and the rest of the gang) against the world, kicking zombie ass, taking names and just trying to survive as everything is falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Or the zombie apocalypse, apparently.

Lip had made the joke the night before, after bullying Ian into watching some Monty Python nonsense. Ian didn’t really get it, but Lip thought it was hilarious, and it was nice to watch a video. The internet was gone so they were steadily working their way through Lip’s hard drive. Lip wasn’t a big giggler, especially not anymore, and it was nice to hear the sound again. And now Lip’s dumb joke was stuck in Ian's head.

He supposed Lip was right. Nobody really expected this to happen. Ian sure as shit didn’t.

Three weeks ago, he never would've thought to pick up a baseball bat, nails carefully embedded into its end and duct tape wrapped around the handle to make it easier to grip, before leaving the house. Well, maybe sometimes, their neighborhood was pretty rough. But usually he liked to think of himself as more a lover than a fighter, unless he really had to defend himself.

Now he ducked to pick the bat up from its spot beside the front door without even thinking, the movement mechanical and automatic. He already had a gun tucked into the back of his pants, a Beretta BU9 Lip had given him, but he preferred the bat. 

It was muggy as shit outside, which was the pits anyway because it meant your shirt was soaked before you even hit the end of the block, the sun beating down on you like you owed it money. But these days it was especially bad because of the smell, the thick putrid stench of dead bodies so thick Ian thought he could almost chew it as he walked.

It was quiet on the block. There was only occasional gunfire from the surrounding streets, and none of the telltale signs of zombies—roaring, shrieking, snarling. Zombies were definitely fucking louder than anyone expected, that was for sure.

Ian reached the barricade at the end of the street. It stretched up fifteen or twenty feet, made up of couches, chairs, tables, shopping carts, two-by-fours, old TV sets—anything anyone could grab in the panic as the first wave of zombies crashed over the city. There were matching barriers two blocks to the west and east, and the biggest barricade sat at the north end of the neighborhood, stretching all the way across a five-way intersection, lined with barbed wire and broken glass. At night, whoever was on patrol poured gasoline over it and lit it on fire to keep the more aggressive zombies at bay. It was pretty fucking impressive, Ian had to admit.

At the top of the south-end barricade where he was, Ian could see Mickey and a few of his brothers standing in a huddle, arguing in low tones. He put his hand over his eyes to shield himself from the glaring sun so he could see the group better.

“Everything okay?” Ian called up. Nobody answered, the huddle continuing the argument. “Mickey!” Still nothing. Ian sighed and stretched his arms over his head, taking a moment to marvel at the calm around him while he waited for the Milkoviches three to notice him.

After the initial craze three weeks ago, when everything began to fall apart, Ian’s little South Side corner of the city was quick to rebalance itself. He’d heard rumors it was the same in Englewood, North Lawndale, Washington Park—all the roughest neighborhoods seemed to have the easiest time pulling it back together after this zombie shit. Ian figured when every day was already a struggle to survive, it made you incredibly well suited for the zombie apocalypse. Maybe he and Mickey and the entire neighborhood had all been part of one big scrimmage, and now it was game day. Zombie game day. 

The handful of blocks that made up this corner of New City, right between Back of the Yards and Canaryville, sure it was dicey and Fiona had told Ian how to differentiate between gunshots and fireworks when he was only five—fireworks echoed, gunshots didn’t—but it wasn’t a fucking demilitarized zone. They weren’t as prepared for the apocalypse as some of those crazies over near Auburn Gresham. He'd sold Cutco knives door-to-door by Ashland and West 76th for a summer when he was 15 and it had been a fucking terrifying three months. By contrast, his neighborhood seemed more stable. Maybe Ian was just used to it. Maybe there was a difference between being broke as shit, and broke as shit + violent. At least Ian’s family, and the people who lived nearby, they were just poor, not necessarily prone to violent crime.

Well. Ian tilted his head back and focused on the shortest of the group of young men arguing heatedly. Maybe some people in the neighborhood were a little more prone to violence.

Mickey was beginning to shout at his brothers, visibly sweating and starting to burn in the early afternoon sun. His pale skin was getting pinker and pinker, and Ian knew it would be peeling by the end of the week, only to reveal a new layer of equally pale skin that stubbornly refused to tan.

“Yo!” Ian cupped his hands around his mouth so his voice would carry better. “You guys, is everything cool?”

Mickey snapped his head around and flipped him off. “Yeah Gallagher, everything’s fucking fantastic, thanks for checking in!”

Ian rolled his eyes, sticking his baseball bat under his arm so he could clamber up the side of the barricade. It was awkward work. His limbs were too long and gangly to make it an elegant journey.

He made it to the top, nudging into Mickey on purpose as he straightened up. Mickey knocked his shoulder back roughly.

“What’s going on?” Ian asked him.

Mickey opened his mouth, but his brother Iggy cut him off. “I was just telling this fuckhead that we need to start doing sweeps outside the barricades.”

Another brother, Colin, nodded vigorously beside him. “We can’t just wait for these fucking zombies to come at us, we need to start clearing the streets on the other side.”

“If we just get some people together, go out in waves during the day, we can kill the fuckers before they kill us.”

“All we have to do is split up into groups—”

“No splitting up!” Mickey interrupted, his voice sharp. His brothers scowled, but piped down.

Mickey reminded Ian of a sheepdog. Ever since the first attacks three weeks ago, he’d enforced a firm policy of the neighborhood banding together, which had taken everyone by surprise, Ian not least. Mickey had always been kind of a loner. Evidently this doomsday shit brought out the pack leader in him.

Ian watched Mickey’s face twist, the thought of his herd scattering obviously freaking him out.

“We stay together,” he said finally. “Splitting up is only going to make us weaker, haven’t you idiots ever seen a fucking movie?” His brothers began to complain, but Mickey wasn’t having it. “Fucking get back to your posts, I’m done talking about this.”

His brothers were still grumbling as they dispersed, moving so that there was someone stationed every ten feet or so along the barricade. There was clearly some dissension, but Mickey was in charge. Ian didn’t know when it had happened exactly, but Mickey was more or less in charge of the neighborhood.

Maybe it was because it had been Mickey who’d thought up the barricade system. It had been Mickey (with some electrical help from Lip) who figured out a way to jimmy-rig the electricity so at least one grid per week had running water and electric and gas. It was Mickey everyone started to come to for a plan, for what to do next, for how to protect themselves. And biggest surprise of all, Mickey had stepped into the role of de facto commander. 

He’d always been a bossy little shit, Ian supposed.

Now he stood beside Mickey, as Mickey frowned and looked out on the streets beyond the barricade. The streets were empty, for now. The zombies didn’t like the daylight. It didn’t necessarily weaken them, but they preferred to move after dark. 

“Were there more attacks last night?” Ian asked. He looked down at Mickey’s shoulders, so tense he could spot a knot in his shoulder.

“Yes,” Mickey muttered. “Two came around midnight, then three more early this morning.”

Ian stepped forward so he could see over the edge of the barricade and looked directly down. There was a pile of bodies below, flesh torn and tangled, the smell of rot wafting up toward them. Ian stepped back, swallowing thickly.

“Jesus,” he said. He wiped a hand over his face. “They’re definitely not giving up.”

“Thank god you’re here, we needed a genius like you to explain fucking zombies to us last night when they were trying to claw their way inside,” Mickey said harshly. Ian stayed silent, giving him a minute. Mickey exhaled loudly, but he didn’t apologize and Ian didn’t really expect him to.

Ian wanted to rub his hand along Mickey’s shoulder, but he resisted. End of the world or not, Mickey was still closeted as all fuck. Instead, Ian spread his stance a little so one sneaker was pressed against Mickey’s boot.

“You should sleep. You have to have been on duty for more than twenty-four at this point,” Ian said quietly. Mickey didn’t respond, but Ian swore he felt his boot press back against the toe of his sneaker.

Ian tried again. “Fiona made mac and cheese. There’s some in the cooler at the house, why don’t you go get something to eat and pass out for a while?” He smiled, daring to lean so his shoulder nudged against Mickey’s. "You'll need your rest, man." Ian bit his lip, excited just thinking about it. "I found something earlier. A little surprise."

Mickey looked skeptical. "What kind of surprise?"

Ian leaned in so his mouth was just above Mickey's ear, his voice going low to ensure only Mickey heard him. "Lube."

Mickey almost yelped in surprise. "Bullshit you found lube," he whispered back, incredulous.

"Hand to god, I swear." Ian couldn't help but gesture excitedly as he explained. "There was half a tube stuck behind the bed frame, I was looking for my shoes and I found it by accident."

Supply levels in general were not ideal in the neighborhood—food, ammo, booze—but Ian and Mickey were most conscious that their stash of lube was running dangerously low. It was becoming an issue, and Ian and Mickey were always torn between fucking for real, or stockpiling their shit in favor of a hummer or four, until they magically happened upon more lube somehow.

"Maybe we should save it," Mickey muttered, chewing his lip.

"Fucking save it my ass, I can't wait anymore."

"So fucking needy," Mickey muttered.

Ian chuckled and looked down at Mickey, their gazes tangling. Ian could tell he wasn't the only one who missed the for-real fucking. His smile grew as he saw Mickey start to blush. It was easy to forget about things for a minute, when it was just them together, staring at each other. No hot, sweaty weather, no zombies waiting in the shadows, no stress and tension from the increasing cabin fever of the neighborhood to worry about. Just the two of them.

Mickey blinked first. He looked down, still hesitant to leave his post. Ian tried one last time. “I promise to come wake you if anything exciting and zombie-related happens.”

Finally Mickey sighed, loudly and with clear irritation, but he was smirking. “You’re annoying,” he told Ian without heat. 

“I know,” Ian said, his voice sympathetic. 

Mickey turned to start making his way down the barricade. “You fucking come get me if anything goes down or I swear to fucking god I will end your narrow ass,” he threw over his shoulder.

Ian laughed. “You’re such a flirt.”

Mickey paused to raise an un-amused eyebrow before disappearing over the edge of the barricade. Ian watched him walk down the street to the Gallagher’s front porch, his pace quick and watchful. He paused on the porch to survey the street then glanced up at Ian. They flipped each other off at the same time. Mickey spun around and went inside, and Ian laughed and turned to look from the top of the barricade, joining Mickey’s brothers and a few other people from the neighborhood stationed to this barricade, awaiting the coming of the zombies for the afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

Back in the Gallagher house, it was tough for Mickey to fall asleep in the middle of the day, even after being up for a day and a half (Ian was right, it had been more than twenty-four, but Mickey wouldn’t admit that it was way longer than just that), eating three bowls full of mac and cheese and curling up in a narrow single bed that still smelled like Ian. Like deodorant and Irish Spring body wash and boy.

But the house was actually quiet for once, nearly all of the Gallaghers on duty at other barricades around the neighborhood (he walked by Debbie’s room and saw her curled up asleep, Liam snoozing at her side), and Mickey didn’t want to waste this rare opportunity for uninterrupted sleep. His guns were piled on the dresser beside him. He carried at least two and a set of hunting knives with him at all times these days, which felt badass at first but now it was a fucking hassle. His pants were always falling down from the weight.

He curled up in the comforter, even though it was hot as balls, and tried to will his body to unwind. It was not an easy task.

His neck and shoulders were so tense that now that he was lying down, they were aching, a steady throb deep in his muscles to match the unpleasant, relentless hum of thoughts in his head. Building up the north-side barricade by a few feet, concerns about the food supply, thinking about his stupid brothers’ stupid plans for stupid patrols from earlier, wondering how much longer the electricity stop-gap he and Lip had thrown together would hold, wondering when the next big zombie attack would come, thinking about Ian, wondering about Ian, Ian, Ian, Ian.

It was easier to relax when he was thinking about that fucking redhead. Mickey felt bad for snapping at him earlier when Ian asked about the attacks. It wasn’t Ian’s fault, it was never his fault, but Mickey had been snapping at him a lot lately. Not that Ian seemed to notice.

Mickey shifted and rolled onto his opposite side, sticking his feet out of the comforter to try and cool down his overheated body.

He needed to stop losing his temper with Ian. The thought kept coming back to him relentlessly. Ian was all he really had left, and he needed to be more careful with him. Mandy was gone, most of the people in the neighborhood were gone, his dad was gone, although that last one wasn’t really a super loss, in the honest scheme of things. Mickey hadn’t seen the bastard since he’d caught Mickey and Ian fucking in the living room three weeks ago, and beaten the ever-loving shit out of both of them. With all that happened since, Mickey had to strain his memory to get a clear picture of the day.

He remembered his dad had gotten Iggy to come out and hold a gun on the boys after he'd gotten done smacking them around, before leaving with a screaming threat of bringing someone back who could fuck the faggot out of Mickey. 

When the elder Milkovich stormed out, Iggy was left holding the glock with shaky hands, his eyes twitching between Mickey and Ian. Ian was crumpled against the far wall, his face a mess. Mickey had figured he must've looked way worse. He couldn’t see out of his left eye and he was pretty sure his jaw was pretty fucked up from getting smacked with his dad’s gun. He ignored Iggy, who didn’t have the balls god gave a cockroach, and kept his eyes trained on Ian. He felt so goddamn guilty, the sensation seeming to crush his lungs. Ian was staring at the ground. Mickey was trying to think of something to say, how to apologize for his dad, for what had happened, when there was a shriek from the street outside.

Iggy ran to the window and looked out. “Fucking what in the fuck,” Iggy had said, sounding dazed. Mickey hauled himself up and joined Iggy at the window. Iggy glanced down at him, then back outside. Mickey followed his gaze.

Three people were attacking an old lady who had been apparently unlocking her car on the street. The three people looked weird, wild and feral, and Mickey didn’t know it at the time but they were shrieking a loud, rough sound he would become so familiar with he could identify it from almost a half-mile away.

Behind him at the window, Mickey felt Ian lean a little against him, trying to look out the window. “Jesus, we need to help her!” he said. Mickey was about to respond when there was more shrieking from the alley just at the corner, and the three boys caught another one of the feral-looking people chasing after a group of little kids. 

The feral people were coming out nowhere, as the three boys watched in shock from the window. 

Mickey wasn’t stupid, he’d seen movies. Hell, zombie movies used to be his favorite, and what he was seeing felt familiar. But it was also so bizarre he couldn’t bear to put a name to it yet.

Finally Mickey snapped out of it. “We need guns.”

Iggy turned, looking uncertain. “Dad said to make you guys wait til he got home.”

“Jesus, are you serious?” Mickey bit out, gesturing wildly at the chaos they could all see from the window. He shoved past Iggy, Ian following. Iggy didn’t fight it.

In the weapon cabinet in the kitchen, Mickey gathered a handful of weapons, a shotgun and some pistols, an AK-47 and two other assault rifles, turning to put his haul on the kitchen table. Ian reached for the AK, but Mickey put a hand over his.

“Hey,” he said. He swallowed, looking Ian in the eye. “You okay?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Not really the time, man.” He wrapped his hand around the AK, but Mickey just stepped closed. 

“I just,” Mickey lowered his voice, “I just want to…what happened before…”

Ian looked at him steadily as Mickey trailed off, and Mickey felt his stomach fall a little. Maybe this was it. Couldn’t blame the kid really, once you get your ass whipped by your kind-of boyfriend’s (Jesus Christ, that word, though) dad, maybe it was time to throw in the towel. Mickey tried to shake it off, but his throat felt tight as he began to turn away. It didn't fucking matter, he wasn't in love with a fucking 16-year-old kid, he'd just walk this one off. it didn't matter. It couldn't.

From outside, the shrieks were increasing. Whatever was happening, it was only falling further to shit the longer they dawdled inside. Mickey’s fingers flexed on the shotgun barrel he held in his right hand, itching to fight.

But then Ian reached out and grabbed his elbow. “How’s your jaw feel?” he asked. 

“Like it just got fucking pistol-whipped,” Mickey said, and next thing he knew he was grinning, and Ian was grinning back. Mickey felt something in his chest de-compress. And as the two of them joined Iggy at the door and burst out onto the street, not yet aware of how much everything was about to violently move sideways on them and the neighborhood and the world at large, Mickey remembered thinking how, at the very least, him and Ian, they still had each other.

And he hadn't seen his dad since, and he wasn't fucking crying about it.

Mandy, though. Mickey sighed, dragging his thoughts to the present. He thought about her a lot. She was probably dead, or more likely, a zombie, but there was no way to know for sure. She’d been on the other side of the city, interviewing for some snazzy temp job in Lincoln Park, when the first attacks crashed over the neighborhood like a wave and left the entire South Side torn and broken to pieces. She never came back, and no one who came back to the neighborhood that night had seen her. They built the barricades after that and no one reported seeing her since then.

Not knowing what had happened to his sister made Mickey feel like he was going insane. His brothers had been pretty torn up too, but they were like sheep. They followed him, and he was upset about Mandy, so they just echoed his pain. Ian was devastated, but he kept it together. They didn't have time to fall apart.

That was three weeks ago. It felt like years and years. Mickey’s heart was starting to pound because it felt like time was just slipping by and they were just sliding toward this horrible abyss at top speed and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. He wished Ian were with him to wrap his arms around him, as gay as that was. Not even in a sex way, just to have someone to hold him down.

Ian was the calmest out of anyone in the neighborhood these days, and Mickey didn’t understand why. Ian just didn’t panic. Maybe it was the fucking ROTC training or something. Maybe he was just wiser than his years. Their lifestyle, it could really harden you. Take the piss right out of you. But it was also incidentally great preparation for the zombie apocalypse, so go figure.

Mickey must have fallen asleep in spite of himself, because he felt himself being yanked awake in the middle of a dream about Ian fucking him nice and hard against a wall with some of that surprise lube he'd been so proud of finding earlier.

“Mickey!” 

The scream tore through the silent Gallagher house. It was Ian’s voice, and he sounded, pretty uncharacteristically, panicked. Mickey shot up in bed, untangling himself from the comforter so he could stagger out of bed. He grabbed up weapons from the dresser and stuffed them in his pockets and waistband.

“Mickey! Mickey, get up!” 

Mickey came barreling down the stairs and ran into Ian as he was running up, taking the steps two at a time.

“Mick—” Ian was cut off as his chest collided with Mickey’s, getting the wind knocked out of him. Mickey reached up and clasped Ian’s face in his hands.

“Ian, man, what’s wrong?” He absently pushed Ian’s red hair off his forehead with his thumbs, feeling real worry creep up his throat. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” He scanned Ian’s flushed face for blood or anything, but he just seemed winded.

Ian’s eyes were wide and watering a little at the corners. Mickey moved one hand down to grip the back of his neck. He gave it a little shake. “Just fucking tell me, what’s fucking going on?”

“Attack.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t incredibly common, zombies appearing in the middle of the day, but it wasn’t unheard of. Ian shook his head, seeming to hear Mickey’s internal shrug.

“This is different,” he said. “There must be, like,” he paused to pant roughly, “maybe thirty of ‘em? Maybe more? It’s a fucking army, man.”

Mickey was already stepping around him, leaving Ian gasping on the stairs, but only for a moment, Ian rushing behind him as Mickey ran outside.

The sun was no longer directly overhead but it was still bright as hell out, Mickey throwing a hand up to shade his eyes so he could see in the sudden light after the shadows of the house. Up ahead, he could just make out the shapes of his brothers darting along the top of the north barricade. They were shooting over the side. He wondered how he hadn’t heard the rapid fire from the Gallagher’s house. He really had been passed the fuck out.

Mickey and Ian ran to the barricade, pushing past the group of people from the neighborhood who had started gathering below. The boys hauled themselves up, scrambling to the top as fast as they could. Mickey pulled out his semi-automatic from his waistband, noticing that he’d remembered his guns but forgotten the knives at the house. He stepped to the edge and looked over.

Ian wasn’t lying, there must have been at least 30 zombies rushing at the barricade, most recently dead. They were shrieking and screaming and clawing at the junk that made up the sides of the barricade, but they were having trouble finding purchase. Zombies were shit at climbing, for whatever reason, which was why Mickey had the idea for the barricades in the first place.

“What the fuck,” Mickey muttered. 

Iggy saw him join the fray and turned his head to shout, “Fuck, Mickey, where the fuck were you?”

Mickey opened his mouth to shout something back, but Ian beat him to it. “He needs to fucking sleep too, he can’t be on patrol every second!”

Mickey rolled his eyes. Ian was calm these days until he felt like he needed to defend Mickey. Like Mickey was some pussy. It was annoying. Really, he reminded himself, trying not smirk. It was seriously annoying.

He stopped smiling as he started firing at the zombies. It took a long time to kill them this time. He noticed it gradually, as the fight kept dragging on. He personally was hitting nearly all of his shots, right in the head or near the top of the neck, and the zombies weren’t going down right away. Why weren’t they going down right away?

He was running out of bullets. He had a feeling the others were too. There were three zombies left, all stubbornly clinging to life, or survival, or whatever the hell kept a zombie moving and attacking. He aimed carefully, letting a slug fly right into the upper right of one of the zombie’s foreheads. It went down, but slowly. Beside him, Ian had his own Beretta, and he took out the second zombie.

The third and final zombie went down three minutes later, but it took Ian, Mickey and Iggy a long time to bring it down, even shooting together and nailing almost every shot.

In the ringing silence after the near-constant shriek of shooting and zombie screams, everyone on top of the barricade was quiet. Below them, there was a hum of conversation from the group of people waiting for news.

Finally, Mickey turned to Ian. Ian’s face was flushed, his shirt soaked and sticking to his chest and abs. He looked good as hell, Mickey thought absently. 

“The fuck was that shit?” he demanded. Ian turned to look at him. Ian, normally calm Ian, Ian who was the only one Mickey could count on to keep his fucking shit together right now, looked worried.

“I don’t man, but it wasn’t fucking good.”


	3. Chapter 3

After the surprise afternoon attack, Ian wouldn’t let Mickey stay on patrol for another night in a row, even though that was all Mickey wanted to do.

“You’re not the only one who can shoot at zombies,” Ian told him, pulling his arm to guide him down from the barricade at the end of the day, after the sun went down but the threat of another thirty-zombie-strong attack still lingered. “Kevin and Lip are on this barricade tonight. They’re good for it.”

Mickey snorted, pulling his arm out of Ian’s grasp, but gently. “Kev couldn’t hit the broad side of a motherfucking barn if he was standing right next to it.”

“He’s gotten a lot better. Veronica’s been working with him.” Ian shrugged. Kev wasn’t a good shot, but he was an excellent look-out. Ian knew Mickey knew this, but he was being a brat anyway because he wanted to stay on patrol.

“You’re not helping anyone if you work yourself to death,” Ian said softly, leaning in so he almost whispering in his ear. He saw Mickey shiver a little, before he rolled his eyes and started climbing down the barricade. Ian followed and beat him to the ground, Mickey jumping the last few feet and stumbling at Ian’s side.

Ian reached and pulled Mickey up, maybe yanking a little too hard so the shorter boy would fall into his chest. “So graceful. Like a swan.”

“Fuck you, man,” Mickey grumbled, but he didn’t pull away from Ian’s grasp right away, and Ian let himself enjoy the feeling of Mickey leaning back against him. Man, the guy must really be exhausted if he was letting Ian practically cuddle him in the middle of the neighborhood. Eventually Ian pulled away.

“Let’s get you home, tough guy. Maybe a shower?” Mickey nodded at the suggestion then yawned hugely. He fell into step beside Ian as they made their way to the Gallagher house.

The Milkovich house was within the confines of the barricade system, but Mickey had been staying at Ian's since the zombie shit unfolded. At first he'd told his brothers it was so he could plan out patrol schedules and food supply shit with Lip and Veronica. People were too distracted to question it, and his brothers were dumb, but Ian knew Mickey was afraid people would start asking questions again. For now, Ian basked in the freedom of going home with Mickey at the end of the day.

The neighborhood was quiet, but it had also come awake for the evening. People had a hard time sleeping at night anymore, the whole place practically becoming nocturnal, and everyone was wandering up and down the sidewalks, gathering into small groups around bonfires to whisper together, some laughing quietly, but never raising their voices above a murmur. Several people nodded at Ian and Mickey as they walked past, Ian because he was well-liked and Mickey because he was grudgingly accepted as a key reason the entire neighborhood wasn’t covered in rubble and zombie entrails by now.

They were nearly to the Gallagher house when Mickey pulled back, grabbing Ian’s elbow and leading him around the back of the house so they were both in the shadows near the backyard. Mickey glanced to behind to make sure they weren't visible from the street.

“What’s up?” Ian asked as Mickey crowded him into the side of the house.

Mickey didn’t answer, instead pressing his lips against Ian’s in a rough, unexpected kiss. Ian raised his eyebrows even as he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss, licking at Mickey’s lips until he opened his mouth and welcomed in Ian’s tongue, moaning at the invasion. Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey’s waist and held him tight, relishing in the sensation of holding him close when during the day he was barely allowed to touch him at all.

Mickey deepened the kiss for a moment, licking into Ian’s mouth like he was wanted to taste every inch of him, then pulled back. Ian couldn’t help but go in for one more kiss, sucking onto Mickey’s bottom lip and slowly letting it go with a soft, wet pop.

“What was that for?” Ian asked, leaning against the house and letting his arms go loose on Mickey’s waist, not releasing his hold.

Mickey relaxed a little too, sighing and then leaning forward so his hips pressed against Ian’s. Ian could feel Mickey getting hard against him and Ian pressed his hips more firmly against his, grinding a little. Mickey hummed at the contact, letting his head fall back a little, then seemed to catch himself.

“No, that’s not why I—I mean, I didn’t do that just so we would—“ Mickey stopped, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples. 

“You sure?” Ian asked. “That’s too bad.” He stopped grinding against Mickey so blatantly, relaxing against the house again. He watched Mickey bite his lip. Ian reached over and put his hand on the side of Mickey’s face, waiting for Mickey to speak. He did, finally.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier,” he blurted out, graceless as usual.

Ian frowned, scrolling through the day’s events, trying to figure out what Mickey was talking about. Everything from before and after the attack seeming like a blur. Finally he gave up.

“When did you yell at me earlier?” 

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, I don’t really remember, I just know you said something when you first came up to barricades and then I got mad and told you to fuck off or some shit, and I shouldn’t have done that and I’m sorry.” He let the words out in a frustrated rush, keeping his gaze leveled on Ian’s chest rather than his eyes. 

Ian thought he vaguely knew what Mickey was talking about, when he’d mentioned that it seemed like the frequency of the zombie attacks was staying pretty constant, but he had a hard time drawing up the incident in his mind.

Instead he looked down at the top of Mickey’s head and smiled widely.

“Wow, apologizing? For hurting my feelings? I think the end of the world might be making you soft, Milkovich,” Ian said, trying not to sound too smug. 

Mickey looked up sharply. “Come on, man, don’t make this any weirder.”

Ian didn’t want to let it go, not yet. “It’s kind of hot when you apologize.”

Mickey’s face softened when he saw Ian was kidding and looked back down, a little smile on his face. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Ian confirmed. His hand was still resting at the base of Mickey’s face and he let it fall down, hooking both his thumbs into the belt loop of Mickey’s jeans. He yanked the other boy’s body against his own. “Pretty fucking sexy, actually.”

Mickey’s smile got wider. He leaned forward, pressing his mouth into Ian’s neck, just below his ear. He paused uncertainly, swallowed. “I’m sorry, Gallagher. I’m so, so sorry.” His voice was deep and throaty, and the sound was making Ian incredibly hard. Mickey began to rock into Ian’s hips, softly at first, the motion gaining momentum quickly. “So sorry, so sorry, so sorry.” He was still muttering apologies into Ian’s neck, but Ian didn’t think even he was listening to himself anymore, getting lost in the motion of their hips pressing against each other rhythmically, faster, harder.

It was easy to let the noise from the street fade away. In the distance there were gunshots and Ian could hear the whispers of people shuffling by on the street, but only just. All he was focused on was the sounds Mickey was making, his ‘sorries’ quickly turning into soft moans every time his hips made contact with Ian’s. Finally Ian couldn’t take it anymore, using one hand to hold Mickey still and the other to pop open his zipper, reaching a hand inside. Mickey began to protest when Ian held him still, but then exhaled sharply when Ian wrapped his hand around his cock. 

Ian started jerking Mickey off with strong, sharp movements, moving his hand all the way to the base before twisting his grip as he slid to the tip, pausing to focus his attention around the red, glistening head, circling the heel of his hand over the sensitive skin, using the precum to lube up his slide back down to the base. Mickey whined at the motion, pressing his head against Ian’s sternum. Ian loved the sounds Mickey made, working his wrist harder to get him to make it again.

Mickey reached over to undo Ian’s pants and pull out his cock too, already hard and pressing against Ian’s belly. Mickey ignored the shaft to reach below and play with Ian’s balls. Ian gasped, his stomach muscles clenching as he sped up his efforts on Mickey. Mickey brought his hand back up and started fisting Ian’s cock, their wrists banging into each other as they tried to drive the other crazy, the hot, wet sounds of their hands on each other getting louder in the quiet of the side of the house

Finally Mickey snapped, knocking Ian’s hand out of the way so he could grip both of their dicks together and jerk them off at the same time. The feeling of their cocks rubbing against each other, alongside the texture of Mickey’s rough hand on Ian’s most sensitive skin, was sending him over the edge. 

He used his newly freed hands to tilt Mickey’s head up and capture his mouth in a kiss, the movement sloppy and wild, his tongue slipping over Mickey’s. Mickey panted into Ian’s mouth and Ian couldn’t help but groan, loudly, over and over as Mickey’s rhythm sped up, the friction almost painful in its intensity.

Just as he was about to come, Ian reach around so he could slip his hands inside Mickey’s jeans and grab at his ass, taking two big handfuls and using the grip to pull Mickey up and against Ian’s body, barely giving him enough room to continue jerking the two of them off. Mickey pulled his mouth away and threw his head back, gasping up at the sky. 

“Mick, I’m gonna come. Jesus, fuck,” Ian panted against Mickey’s neck. 

“Unnh,” Mickey panted back articulately.

Ian licked and then bit at the pulse throbbing on the side of Mickey’s neck, feeling the pressure reach critical mass. Mickey made a low sound in his throat and came over both their dicks and his own hand, staining the front of Ian’s shirt. Ian followed him right away, adding his mess to the sticky wetness.

In the sudden stillness of the night, Ian could only lean against the house and pant, his mouth still half-pressed against Mickey’s neck.

“Fuck me,” Mickey muttered. He leaned against Ian, putting his hands against the house on either side to steady himself. 

“Next time, I promise.” Ian couldn’t catch his breath yet. 

After a few minutes, Mickey pulled back to look up at Ian. Ian looked down, feeling a crooked smile on his own face. Mickey looked oddly serious for a guy who had just gotten off.

Ian lifted one eyebrow, waiting.

“I really am sorry,” Mickey muttered, leaning against Ian so his face was hidden again. Hi voice was so low Ian could barely hear him. “I don’t know why I get so mad at you.”

Ian wrapped his arms around Mickey, Mickey’s hands moving to rest on Ian’s hips.

Before the zombies, Ian didn’t remember a single time he’d hugged Mickey. Fucked him, punched him, wrestled with him, knocked a shoulder against his as they were walking down the street together. But never the quiet, still, but intense pressure of a hug they shared so often now. Ian loved it. He half welcomed the zombies if it meant more hugging, which even he could acknowledge was an incredibly gay thing to think.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” Ian said finally, resting his chin on Mickey’s head. 

Mickey didn’t say anything, but Ian could feel him tense. He didn’t believe what Ian was saying. Ian squeezed him tightly for a moment in rebuke.

“I’m serious. Yeah, you’re a cranky bastard,” Ian said, ignoring Mickey’s token complaint of “Hey fuck you,” and began rubbing his hands slowly and smoothly up and down Mickeys back, “but it’s not a big deal. If I have a problem, I’ll let you know.”

Mickey pulled back to look up at him. He was biting his bottom lip again, a habit Ian didn’t think even he knew he had. “Promise, you shithead?”

Ian laughed, rolling his eyes. He pushed himself off from the house and pressed Mickey away from him, grabbing hold of his hand as they walked around the side of the house to go inside. He didn’t say anything when Mickey pulled his hand free once they were in front and people might see.

“I promise, you dick,” Ian said. Mickey brushed his fingertips against Ian’s as they walked inside.


	4. Chapter 4

“Something's altering the zombies' behavior," Lip said.

Mickey couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Lip, not even trying to hide it anymore because goddamnit this kid was such a know-it-all.

Lip ignored Mickey’s attitude. “I’m fucking serious, the pace of attacks has completely changed. You guys said you had thirty at the north barricade the other day, last night we had two waves of at least ten each. It’s getting out of control.”

Mickey shrugged, going back to eating his second bowl of stew. Debbie had cooked today, he could tell. She always made it extra spicy.

Mickey was in the Gallagher’s kitchen, sitting in on what had become the neighborhood’s de facto planning committee, which he really thought should make more people uncomfortable because damn, they weren’t exactly your classic brain trust. Kev and Veronica were situated on the far end of the table, and Debbie and Carl were sandwiched on either side of Liam in his height chair. Fiona was pacing nervously across the width of the kitchen, and Ian sat between Mickey and Lip, mostly because if there wasn’t a barrier Mickey would probably kill the motherfucking son of a bitch.

Beside him, Ian was listening to Lip with both elbows on the table, resting his head in his hands. He looked impossibly cute, that little frown on his face. Mickey rolled his eyes again, this time at himself. If there was one thing that was getting out control, it wasn’t the zombies, it was his girly fucking emotions for the Gallagher kid, Jesus H. fucking Christ.

“We need to get the neighborhood together, talk this out. See what they think,” Lip was saying.

The last thing they fucking needed was a public forum, Mickey grumbled internally. They'd had a few neighborhood meetings in the Alibi, which Kev had donated as command central when necessary, even if the kegs had tappe dout two weeks ago and there was barely any liquor left. It was fucking painful listening to every bum and idiot in there ramble on about their thoughts and feelings on zombies, life, the universe and everything. Every last asshole would feel the need to get a word in, and they’d be there all night, when in the end they’d probably end up listening to whatever he or Lip or Veronica (who turned out to have a real head for strategy in the zombie war) said they should do. 

Besides, the pace of attacks wasn’t the problem. Sure, they needed to think about getting more ammo if zombies were attacking in double digits rather than just pairs, but that wasn’t the whole problem.

“The problem isn’t how many are attacking,” Ian said softly. Mickey looked at him, finding it a little weird that the kid was practically reading his thoughts.

“What are you talking about, of course it’s a problem,” Lip said. 

“Would you just shut up and let him fucking talk?” Mickey snapped.

Ian didn’t seem to hear them bickering. He was frowning a little to himself. “It’s that they’re getting harder to kill.”

There was a brief silence at the table. Fiona shared a look with Lip. Kev and Veronica also looked grim. The younger kids weren’t really paying attention, although Debbie looked worried as she tried to help Liam eat some stew. Mickey was sure he looked surprised. He might have noticed something different during the attack with the thirty zombies before, but he hadn’t talked about it with Ian. It had seemed weird in the moment, but he’d pretty much forgotten about it til now. Maybe he wanted to believe that he was imagining things. 

“What do you mean?” Lip said after a minute.

“Well, didn’t you notice that it takes a lot more shots to kill one zombie? We almost ran out of bullets at our barricade.”

Kev coughed. “I did run out.”

“The fuck!?” Mickey exclaimed, nearly spitting out his mouthful of stew. “How do you fucking run out of bullets, I gave your seven-foot ass twice as much as everyone else because your aim is so fucking poor, you fucking piece of…” He trailed off, feeling the pressure of Ian’s bare foot pressing gently on to his own. Kev did look embarrassed, and Veronica was glaring at Mickey. Maybe he was overreacting. He went back to his stew, still swearing under his breath though.

Ian stopped pressing down but he didn’t move his foot from on top of Mickey’s, which Mickey secretly liked.

“I just think it’s possible that the zombies are evolving,” Ian said.

“If that’s not the worst damn thing I ever heard in my life, I don’t know what is,” Veronica said flatly. 

Mickey silently agreed, pushing his nearly finished bowl of stew away from him. He wasn’t that hungry anymore. He watched Lip, whose face had gone vacant with that non-expression he got when he was thinking. Mickey didn’t like him, but dude could think through a problem, Mickey could give him that.

“We need to measure how they’re changing their habits,” Lip finally said. “It’s one thing to think they’re acting differently, but we need more systematic data. We need to know how they’re changing, if we want to be able to keep defending against them.”

“What are you thinking we should do?” Ian asked.

“I say one week of observations. We’ll need to know more about what we’re dealing with.”

Mickey nodded. He felt Ian turn to look at him, waiting for him to say something. He felt the others turn to him too. He didn’t know when this had happened, this subtle shift in control, everyone waiting for him to make the call, but he didn’t have to time to really think about it, especially if fucking zombies were evolving, holy mother of fucking god.

He leaned forward, brain formulating a plan of action. “We get every shift on every barricade to log every attack—how many zombies, what time, roughly how many shots they’re using to take one down, how they’re moving and acting, just general stuff. That sound like enough fucking data for you?” Mickey asked Lip. Lip nodded.

The others murmured agreement, but Ian made a face. “People are going to panic.”

Fiona spoke up for the first time that night, stopping near the counter to cross her arms and rapidly tap her foot. She’d been a near-literal ball of tension for the last few weeks. She made Mickey feel laid back.

“If we tell people we want them to record attacks because we’re worried the zombies are learning and growing, I think that would be…pretty bad for morale,” Fiona said.

Lip shrugged. “So we don’t tell them. I mean, maybe a handful will notice something’s up, but everyone’s just so drained, they might not even have the energy to question it.”

Ian looked at Mickey. “He’s not wrong.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “I know he’s not wrong, I didn’t say he was wrong,” he muttered. Lip grinned smugly. Mickey gave him the finger.

Ian ignored them, and let out a slow exhale. “Do you think we should talk about your brothers’ idea from yesterday?” he asked Mickey. Mickey’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. He couldn’t believe Ian was even bringing up the stupid fucking crossing-the-barricade-to-hunt-zombies-free-range-like-a-bunch-of-dipshits idea.

“No,” he snapped, sharply, but fuck it he felt cornered. Ian sighed.

“What idea?” Veronica asked.

“Yeah, what kind of day-saving ideas are the Milkoviches coming up with in their spare time?” Lip said with a laugh.

Mickey glared at him. “Nothing, smartass.”

“Mickey, I think we should just—”

“I said no, Gallagher.”

Ian leaned back, folding his arms. He narrowed his eyes at Mickey, but Mickey glared right back. Internally, Mickey sighed. He didn’t want to fight with Ian.

“Well, whenever you feel like deigning to share with the class, El Capitan, we’ll just be holding our breath right here,” Lip said. He took a big gulp of air and puffed out his cheeks, holding his breath and glaring at Mickey pointedly.

From the counter, Fiona sighed. “Let’s just go to bed, you guys. Everyone has patrol bright and early in the morning.”

“And the zombies wait for no one,” Kev said in a deep, spooky voice. Only Veronica laughed, but it helped to break the tension a little. He helped Veronica clamber out of her seat. She was six months pregnant and becoming increasingly unwieldy. Just looking at her gave Mickey anxiety, because what in the fuck were they going to do when she gave birth? He rolled his eyes, because he couldn't worry about that right now. Kev waved and grabbed her hand, the two leaving to go next door.

Fiona looked at Lip, who was still holding his breath theatrically and looking at Mickey, then sighed. “You three, upstairs!” she said, clapping twice to get the younger kids’ attention. Debbie hopped up and pulled Liam onto her hip. Carl followed wordlessly, Fiona watching his movements, clearly worried. Mickey had noticed Carl’s eyes had been deader than ever since the zombie attacks. Ian said the whole family was concerned about it. But, at least the kid was an excellent fucking shot against zombies. The problem was he seemed to relish the kill. Even Mickey was starting to feel uneasy around the budding little psychopath.

Speaking of uneasy, Mickey watched Ian get to his feet and head upstairs without looking behind him to make sure Mickey was coming too. 

“Goddamnit,” Mickey muttered. He got up to follow him upstairs, ignoring Lip’s dramatically inflated cheeks as he passed. He headed into Lip’s old room, which he had graciously allowed them to have on rare nights when everyone else was home, after ungraciously throwing a fit the fourth time he’d caught them fucking on Ian’s tiny twin bed. At this point, Mickey and Ian's euphemistic hanging out was an open secret amongst the Gallagher family, and Kev and V as well. Oh well, bigger fish to fry, Mickey figured. As long as it fucking stayed in the house.

It was rare that Ian and Mickey both had the night off from patrolling. It had only happened three times since the attacks started. Mickey had been looking forward to fucking around and then curling around the tall, lanky redhead, maybe getting a good night’s rest for once. That seemed unlikely now though, as he came into the room to see Ian sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed.

Mickey pulled his shirt off and started pulling off his pants, stepping on the ends of the jeans to get them off in the least graceful way possible.

“Fucking warn a guy next time, will ya?” Mickey said irritably. “If you’re going to try and get your family to side with my stupid fucking brothers against me, I’d appreciate a little fucking time to prepare some opposing arguments.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Same team, Mickey.”

“What the fuck does that mean.”

“It means I’m on your side here, even if you only remember it half the time.”

Mickey felt himself scowling, and he couldn’t help it. He almost wished Ian was more shouting-mad, than mad-disappointed, because mad-disappointed always made Mickey feel like a piece of shit. He fell back on the foot of the bed, groaning. “Jesus Christ.”

“So when I ask about your brothers’ idea about patrols, I’m not doing it because I’m trying to piss you off,” Ian said. He sighed then, running a hand over his face. “Maybe I should’ve talked about it with you first though. I’m sorry. It’s just been on my mind.”

Mickey felt guilty. “Naw, man, it’s okay. Fuck, you just caught me off guard. And more than that, it’s a stupid fucking plan. It’s too dangerous.” He rubbed his eyes until he saw bright wobbles of light behind his eyelids.

“I just think—god, this is surreal—I just think that your brothers may have actually had a quasi-decent idea about going outside the barricades.”

Mickey stayed silent. He wasn’t sure what he thought about his brothers’ idea. He knew everyone was just sitting ducks at the moment, waiting for zombies to crash against the barricades and hoarding a rapidly decreasing supply of food and water with no real ideas on how to restock. But he thought of people scattering over the barricade, he thought of Ian and his family going over, and his brain said “see you tomorrow boss!” and shut down and he couldn’t think.

He didn’t know Ian had moved closer until he felt him curling around his side like ivy. He tangled his feet with Mickey’s and cupped his hand around Mickey’s face, his big hand almost engulfing Mickey’s entire cheek. It was a gesture Mickey used to flat-out refuse to tolerate and still put up a token resistance to, but Ian did it so often these days Mickey was coming to rely on it. It was weird. He sighed.

“You can’t protect everybody forever, tough guy,” Ian said softly. 

Mickey looked at him sharply. “The fuck does that mean, man?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “You can’t even see it, can you?” Ian used his thumb to gently trace Mickey’s eyebrow, a sensation that almost had Mickey’s eyes rolling back in his head, but he fought it, trying to hang on to his irritation. “That’s my favorite part, I think.” 

Mickey was about to argue, but Ian leaned forward and stole the words with his mouth. 

Mickey wanted to know what the hell Ian was talking about, but he wanted to make out more. And before he could remind himself to ask Ian about it later, they were wrapped around each other, arms and legs entwined and holding tight, like two needy gay octopuses, he thought lightly.

And if they eventually yawned into each other’s mouths and pulled away, re-situating themselves so they were at the head of the bed, Ian engulfing Mickey’s smaller frame with his embrace, and they both fell asleep without even getting off, more content to cuddle (good christ, that word made his skin itch) than fuck, well, Mickey was never going to admit to anyone that it felt almost better than his original sex-based plans for the evening. He still had a reputation to maintain, zombies be damned.


	5. Chapter 5

They tracked the zombies for a week, but it only took til Wednesday for Ian to see that shit was not good.

“Well,” he said, looking at a half-finished chart he was holding. “These are weird.” He tossed the pile of papers on the table and leaned back, putting his hands behind his head.

Mickey was staring down at his own stack of papers, chewing on his lip. He didn’t seem to have heard Ian at all.

Ian had just come off a shift on the east barricade. He’d been scheduled with a handful of people he knew from a few blocks over, Jim MacKenzie and his wife Sue and Johnny D and JD, two drunks with mirror-image names he’d only ever seen before when they half-passed out at the Alibi. Carl had joined him at the last minute, even though Ian was sure he wasn't scheduled for that night. Fiona had asked Mickey and Veronica, who were usually in charge of patrol scheduling, to ease off Carl for a bit. He was like a pitbull on the barricade, but he had barely spoken in the last month.

In the end, it was good Carl had joined them, because without him they would have been pretty much swamped.

From 6 p.m. to midnight, six different groups of zombies had attacked the wall, throwing themselves at the barricade again and again, barely slowing down as Ian and his patrol shift rained down bullets upon them. 

Carl had wanted to go over the wall and tear them apart with his bare hands, and Ian was just able to hold him back, the kid struggling like some kind of wild animal. Carl had always been off, but things were getting serious with the kid. Ian had vowed to talk about it with Lip next time he saw him.

But that wasn’t even what had gotten Ian. What had gotten Ian was the way the zombies had behaved toward each other.

Zombies had a habit of traveling in groups. It was weird to see just one staggering alone by itself, there was usually at least one or two more stumbling alongside. But they didn’t seem to notice each other beyond that, anymore than a school of fish notices one another as they swim through the sea. Ian had never seen one zombie look at another zombie in the face, or try to communicate. That was changing now.

And with the halfway mark of their little zombie-observation experiment upon them, looking at the data they had so far, Ian wasn’t the only one who was seeing the change. The notes at the bottom of the charts were scribbles of alarm, different barricades noting the same changes. 

“1st zmb looking like it talked to 2nd zmb (I kno that’s stupid, u said to write what we saw tho)”

“3 zoombies, 7/8 bulets to head/ea”

“Attack #1 = 7 zombies; Attack #2 = 6 zombies; Attack #3 = 12 zombies”

"Around 3am, 1 Z. tried to distract patrol from w. side of barricade, so 2 Z. could attack on e. side."

Some of the spelling might be piss-poor, and Lip was not going to be thrilled by the depth of detail and ability to fully fill in a data chart from a scientific perspective, but the message was the same. Namely, they were on their way to getting fucked, and not in a good way.

Ian blinked and looked up from where he was staring on the table. He stood and came to stand beside Mickey’s chair. It was just the two of them in the Gallagher kitchen. Carl was asleep, Debbie was with Liam at Veronica’s, Lip and Fiona had just left for their shift on the east barricade. In the quiet of the kitchen, Ian felt safe reaching over to push the papers out of Mickey’s hand and slide onto his lap. Mickey was still biting his lower lip, barely acknowledging Ian’s move on top of him, other then lifting his arm to settle it across the top of Ian’s legs.

Ian watched his worried expression for a bit. Mickey looked miles away.

“How you doing there, kiddo?” he finally asked. Mickey jerked slightly and looked at Ian, apparently noticing that the lanky redhead was all over him for the first time.

“What the fuck, man?” Mickey said, trying to disentangle Ian’s limbs from his. Ian resisted, rearranging as Mickey struggled until Ian was straddling him. “Fuck, man, what if someone comes in and sees?”

Ian couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Bigger fish here, Mick. Besides, everyone’s out.”

Mickey stopped pushing at Ian, unable to really move the larger boy much, and apparently giving in to the comforting warmth of Ian lying on top of him. He closed his eyes, wincing at an apparent headache. 

“So those notes from barricades are depressing as shit,” Mickey said. He let his hands rest on Ian’s hips.

“You said it,” Ian replied. He didn’t know what else to say. They needed to talk about this, figure out if they needed to do anything, but what could they do, what could anyone do against undead monsters that were learning and evolving and growing stronger, and the thought of bringing it up just exhausted him. Mickey already looked like he was going to keel over from lack of sleep. Ian didn’t want to add to his stress-level, which was considerable. Instead, he changed the subject. “What do you miss most from before?”

“What do you mean, before?” Mickey said. His eyes were still closed, and he brought a hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. 

Ian pushed his hand away and rubbed gently at Mickey’s temples. Mickey sighed deeply. “Feels good,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

“I mean from before the zombies, you know what I mean, dude.”

“I don’t know, things were pretty shit before too.”

“Maybe. But this is some next-level shit we got going on now, though.”

“No kidding.” Mickey leaned his head closer to Ian, who got the hint and increased the pressure of the massage on Mickey’s head. “Why, what do you miss?”

“I know it’s so fucking shallow, but I miss the internet, like for real.” Ian sighed, and Mickey let out an amused snort. “I’m serious man, what I wouldn’t give to look at a fucking cat picture right now, let me tell you. What about you?”

"Porn, I guess. Like video porn that you download, not just the weird old magazines from the 70s my dad has stashed in the bathroom."

"Pervert," Ian laughed. He considered for a minute. "Deep-dish pizza."

"Decent beer."

"Going to the movies."

"Taking the L."

"I thought you were afraid of heights."

"I'm not afraid of heights, I just don't trust heights," Mickey huffed, making Ian chuckle. "And the L isn't that high up anyway. And it takes you places, and you can leave your own shitty neighborhood and go to someone else's shitty neighborhood for a while." Mickey's voice sounded dreamy.

"And go to the beach. God, I miss the beach." Ian looked down, a little embarrassed at the plaintive note in his voice. He could feel Mickey looking at him.

"Maybe we'll go again some day, Firecrotch. I mean, the lake is still there. Zombies can't do shit about bodies of water."

"Yeah, maybe," Ian said with a shrug, not wanting to think about the possibility of being trapped behind the barricades in this neighborhood for the rest of eternity. "What else do you miss?"

Mickey didn’t respond for a long time, and Ian thought he was just going to ignore him. Finally, he spoke up. “I don’t want to say. You’ll just make fun of me.”

“Come on, little girl. No I won’t.”

“You’re making fun of me right now!”

“Come on, do it. Do it. Do it.”

“Jesus, stop. It’s just—my GED. I regret that I’ll never be able to get my GED, or get my high school diploma, or whatever the fuck.”

Ian froze, his hands going still against Mickey’s temples. “I didn’t know you wanted to do that.”

Mickey shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the admission. “I didn’t, not til your scrawny ass wouldn’t stop bringing it up. I mean, I practically flunked out when I was a freshman, figured whatever, I'm already fucked for life. But then I started thinking about it, which was weird. I always hated school.” Mickey finally opened his eyes, looking at Ian. Ian felt his breath catch a little as he was caught in the bright blue gaze. "I would've never told you, shit I don't know why I'm telling you now."

Ian snorted. "Zombies."

"Zombies," Mickey agreed. He kept going, like he'd warmed to the subject. "But you kept bringing it up, and then one day it was like, 'I'm only fucking 18. Shit, maybe I can do that one day.' It wasn't like a plan, I didn't sign up for classes or anything fucking gay like that. It was just, this idea, you know? It was there, in my head. I liked thinking about it sometimes when things got too fucked up. I’d never really thought about shit like that before you."

Ian coughed, feeling a little emotional all of a sudden, overwhelmed at the outpouring of information. Mickey noticed and grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “And just when I was finally thinking it was something I wanted to do, boom, zombie apocalypse. I think you jinxed it.”

Ian pushed at his chest a little. “Yep, that was all me. If I had a nickel for every time I was directly responsible for the zombie apocalypse…”

“You’d have one nickel,” Mickey finished. His tone was light, but Ian couldn’t look away. Mickey did this sometimes, said something serious then tried to couch the severity with humor, and Ian was left sifting through the pieces, trying to determine what was real and whether Mickey was just fucking with him. 

Ian moved so his hands cupped Mickey’s neck, leaning back a little so his arms were taut. 

“Who knows, you might still get to do that. Get your GED or something like it.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Mickey laughed. He ran his fingers lightly over one of Ian’s wrists that was pressed against his own neck, not seeming to notice he was doing it. “I don’t know if you seen, but we’ve kind of got a little zombie infestation going on.”

“No, I mean, later. Eventually.” Ian paused. It was hard to explain, but when Ian thought of the end of the world, he didn’t think of the world ending. He thought of it as the world restarting. He had this image of Mother Nature in his mind (who always looked like Nicki Minaj in his head, he didn’t know why), rising up and looking at the face of the earth with a disappointed expression, then sighing and sweeping a hand over it, wiping it clean so life could reset. And maybe the human race deserved it, maybe it was time. Maybe it would be better off if it had to start over again, and get things right this time.

Ian could see Mickey was still waiting for him to explain, and he struggled to do so. “It’s like, things’ll never go back to normal, but they won’t always be like this. We’ll have to find a new way to live one day, right? It won’t always be us fighting the zombies. Maybe there will be schools again, and hospitals and stuff…after.”

Mickey was looking at him like he was a nut, and Ian was starting to feel like a nut. “Things’ll have to…normalize, somehow.” He shrugged self-consciously. “Don’t you think?”

“I think you’re weird,” Mickey said. “Like, really weird.”

Ian exhaled slowly. He never really expected Mickey, or anyone, to understand anyway. He didn’t really understand what he meant, just that he had to believe that things wouldn’t always be this way, or he’d go crazy. He wanted to tell Mickey that he was kidding, and that he wasn’t weird, but instead, he glanced at the watch on his wrist. “You’ve got patrol in like, thirty minutes, right?”

Mickey nodded. 

“Let me show you how weird I can be.”

Ian slipped down until his knees hit the floor, spreading Mickey’s knees and gliding his hands up until they met at his zipper. He looked at Mickey from underneath his lashes. Mickey’s mouth was dropping open a little bit.

Even though he wanted to take his time, go slow and tease the shorter boy in a way Mickey would never admit drove him crazy, Ian felt a little frantic to get his mouth around him. He pulled the other boy’s pants off roughly and yanked them to the ground, forcing Mickey to twist to get free of the material and leaving him in just his boxers on the kitchen chair. 

"Yo, when am I going to see that magic surprise lube I've heard so much about?" Mickey said, already breathless.

"When you're good," Ian said, moving his head to bite the side of Mickey's knee firmly, making the older boy flinch and moan softly.

Mickey glanced worriedly at the kitchen door and then to his right toward the front door, checking to make sure the coast was clear, and it irritated Ian beyond reason. How could he still have the presence of mind to worry about getting caught? Ian decided to make it so Mickey couldn’t think of anything but the feel of Ian’s mouth. 

He reached forward and pulled out Mickey’s hardening cock and barely stopped to admire it before sucking it into his mouth with a rough motion, bobbing his head up and down until he felt the dick in his mouth stiffen completely. 

Above him, Mickey swore and threw his head back. He cradled Ian’s head in both of his hands, getting a grip on the thick red hair. Ian wanted him to pull and guide his head back and forth on his cock, but Mickey never pulled his hair unless Ian told him to. He was almost too gentle whenever Ian gave him head, at least at first. Ian always did his best to make him lose control as quickly as possible.

Ian used his hands to fist the bottom of Mickey’s cock, running his tongue around and around the shining head, making Mickey grunt. Ian put a hand up to press against Mickey’s chest, loving the feeling of running his hand over Mickey’s body, even through his clothes. 

He was getting hard himself, just from sucking Mickey off, and reached inside his own pants to start jerking at his cock, keeping his rhythm up on Mickey as he did so.

He was making loud sounds as he blew Mickey, slurping and sucking and spitting and choking and moaning, because he couldn’t help losing control with Mickey’s cock in his mouth and because he knew that Mickey loved it when he got sloppy, spit and precum getting all over his chin and face.

Ian looked up and Mickey was staring down at him, panting and red-faced. Their eyes locked, Mickey reaching one hand down to cup Ian’s jaw as he swallowed Mickey’s cock as deep as he could. 

“Ian, Ian,” Mickey whispered. Ian didn’t like that he was still able to form words, even though he loved hearing Mickey say his name, so he twirled his tongue while making a twisting motion with his wrist on Mickey’s cock, which seemed to jerk all intelligible speech from Mickey’s body. “Uunh, mmmmm, oh, oh, ahhhhhh,” Mickey hissed out, and Ian smiled a little, or as much as he could around Mickey’s thick cock, because if the older boy could hear himself right now he probably wouldn’t believe the sounds he was making.

Mickey tugged at Ian’s hair, and he was just starting to get rough, pulling steadily at Ian’s hair from the roots. He wrapped one leg around Ian’s waist as best he could, like he was trying to bring Ian as close as possible. Ian could tell he was about to come and redoubled his speed, jerking his head up and down til his neck started to feel sore, sucking as hard as he could and using his tongue to press against the sensitive underside of Mickey’s cock. Ian increased the speed of his hand on his own cock, determined to follow Mickey over the edge. 

Mickey came with a shout, wincing as Ian sucked him down and swallowed everything, continuing to lick at Mickey til he couldn’t take the stimulation anymore and gently pushed Ian back. Ian reluctantly released the softening dick and sat back on his heels, wiping his cum-covered hand on the edge of shirt before wiping the corners of his mouth with his thumbs. 

“Better get off to patrol, you don’t want to be late,” Ian said, gasping and patting Mickey on the knee. 

Mickey couldn’t help by grin tiredly. “That’s so not fair, man.” He reached out and pulled Ian back, so his face pressed against Mickey’s stomach. “Just, chill for a second. Let a dude fucking catch his breath, yeah?”

Ian leaned in, smiling himself, and wrapped his arms around Mickey, letting the older boy cradle him for a few minutes. This was new too, this urge to wrap themselves around each other after getting off, that wasn’t there before the zombies. Before they were rushing to finish and get out as soon as they could. Now, they were rushing to hold each other after, the threat of death and attack a very real shadow over their heads. Ian hated the feeling of being on the brink of loss, but he loved the cuddling. He knew Mickey secretly did too.

He felt Mickey’s heartbeat slow to normal. The kitchen started to cool down again, and Mickey sighed.

“I don’t think we can wait til Saturday to meet with the rest of the neighborhood about these reports,” he said, nodding at the pile of troubling notes they'd compiled from the barricade charts. 

Ian exhaled. “Me either. I mean, we could wait to get more evidence together but I don’t think the patrols for the rest of the week are going to find anything different.”

“God fucking damnit.” Mickey stood up and Ian sat back, watching Mickey pull up his jeans and rearrange his clothes. He reached out, a little hesitantly, to brush Ian’s cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You should get some sleep. We can figure things out later.”

Ian gave him a salute, and Mickey rolled his eyes. “Such a smartass,” he muttered under his breath as he walked outside to man the barricade.

Watching him go, Ian stood up, frowning. He was worried. Something was about to happen, he could feel the tension on his skin. He pulled his shirt off and headed upstairs, tired but so anxious he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep that night, and he was right—he barely did. He was too sure something was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to say thanks for the kudos and comments! Y'all are sweet. It's so nice to finally be putting out some content instead of just being a site-lurker around here. Hope you're enjoying some zombified-Shameless as much as I'm enjoying writing it. :)


	6. Chapter 6

Something was indeed coming. Mickey felt it too. He just hadn’t talked about his sense of foreboding with Ian, because the kid was a worrier. 

And as it turned out, something was coming, but it wasn’t zombies. Mickey almost wished it was zombies.

As he walked out of the Gallagher house, leaving Ian to sleep for a few more hours and his own head pleasantly hazy from his surprise hummer, he saw Iggy walking toward him. Well, more like jogging.

“Dude!” Iggy called out. He sounded breathless.

“What’s up, dickhead?”

Iggy didn’t bother to engage in their usual ritualistic brother name-calling. “There’re people coming up to the barricade.”

Mickey frowned. “What, like, people, people?”

“Alive, non-zombified people, people,” Iggy confirmed. He paused. “Dad’s with them.”

Mickey was stunned speechless. His dad was alive. His dad was back in the neighborhood. Well, fuck.

He immediately thought of being pistol-whipped, of having the shit kicked out of him, of watching Ian get the shit kicked out of him. He thought of his dad screaming and storming off in a mad pursuit of someone to fuck the gay out of his son. 

Christ, Mickey thought. That felt like forever ago, like it had happened to some stranger he went to high school with or something. 

In the present, he shook himself and followed Iggy outside. It was not quite midnight, and it was still hot as fuck. Mickey followed his brother down to the eastern barricade. Sure enough, a crowd was gathering, a few people in pajamas, murmuring as a group of people were pulling themselves up the side of the barricade. Mickey was irritated to see that whoever was on patrol wasn’t really preventing the intruders from coming in, even if they recognized them, which was kind of the opposite of “keeping the neighborhood secure”, and the sight made me cranky, but then the moon came out from behind some clouds and the silver light illuminated the scene before him, and Mickey felt frozen to his spot.

Terry was hauling himself atop the barricade. He seemed smaller than Mickey remembered, but maybe it was a distance-perspective thing. He was still twenty feet away. As Mickey watched, his dad put his hands in his pocket and looked out on the neighborhood, his eyes taking in the people milling about, the western barricade a few blocks away, and finally settling on Mickey. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Terry smirked, then looked away.

He wasn’t alone, like Iggy had said. A few other men Mickey recognized from running jobs with his dad joined him on the barricade, his Uncle Ronnie and Uncle Rico were laughing about something, and they were helping a gaggle of rough-looking women up behind them. There must be twenty in all, Mickey decided. Fuck. They didn’t have enough supplies for twenty extra people. 

Iggy went to help their dad stumble down the barricade, the rest of his group following. Terry’s voice rose up above the din as he wrapped Iggy in a friendly headlock and hugged Joey with his other arm, cracking jokes with the people around him, jovial and gruff at the same time. His dad was scary, but he was always the life of the party, at least until he felt like shutting the party down.

Against all sense, Mickey found himself wishing that at least some of the Gallaghers were with him, maybe Lip or Fiona. Possibly Kevin, he was so fucking giant. He just wanted someone on his side.

Not Ian, though. He was beginning to quietly panic at what his dad would do when he saw Ian again, and for now he was happy to know he was safe and asleep inside.

As Mickey stood, Terry finally made his way over. His brothers were laughing and the men his dad were with made a good-natured racket behind him. Terry looked Mickey up and down, a side of his lip curling.

“Hey, Dad,” Mickey said, a little weakly. A part of him that he hated couldn’t help but feel relieved that his dad was alive. His dad had always had this weird draw on him, on his brothers, a strange sort of charisma that drew people to him. Mickey hated it and felt powerless to resist it at the same time.

Terry didn’t respond at first, stepping forward to pull Mickey into a rough embrace. Mickey stepped forward stiffly, surprised. He felt his dad’s arms close around him tightly, the pressure pinching his sides. He could feel weapons in his dad's pockets, what felt like a rifle of some sort and a few long, sheathed objects, probably knives. The proximity to his dad's weapons made him tense.

“Well, if it isn’t the little cock-gobbler,” he whispered into Mickey’s ear. Mickey flinched, but he didn’t think anyone else heard. Terry pulled back and smirked, and Mickey could see he was just playing with him. He wanted Mickey to panic. 

Terry turned to the men at his back, who all seemed to have slung themselves around one or two of the women they were traveling with. The women were chattering in what sounded like Polish, or maybe Russian. “What’s it take to get a drink around here, eh?” he said loudly. The growing crowd cheered, excited at the chance of an impromptu party.

Mickey saw the patrol of men and women who were still on duty at the western barricade begin to follow the group toward the Alibi. He swore and ran up to them.

“Hey! HEY! The fuck you think, everyone just gets to go on break and get fucked up now?” he spat, grabbing a handful of the nearest man’s shirt. “Tommy, I swear to god, you assholes get back up there and finish your shift or I will throw you over the side for the zombies to get at, you lazy fuck.”

Tommy threw his arms up. “Whoa, sorry man. Just got caught up in the moment, you know? Your dad’s back!”

“I fucking know it,” Mickey muttered. He didn’t leave the barricade until all five people were back up at their posts.

He turned to see his dad watching him. “So they put the little faggot in charge, eh?” he said in a low voice. Mickey clenched his jaw. 

“I’m not in charge,” he said. His dad raised an eyebrow, as Mickey didn’t bother denying the faggot part.

The others had made their way to the Alibi by now, and Mickey was already biting his lip thinking about how big a dent this little impromptu get-together was going to put in their alcohol supply. They’d probably plow through the whole goddamn thing, not to mention their food and water. The majority of which was stored upstairs at the bar, because it was the biggest space they had. Fuck. He needed to get Kev.

“Your little redheaded bitch around? Or he rotting somewhere?” his dad was saying. The mocking, goading tone was familiar, but Mickey's reaction to it felt foreign. It was like hearing a language you used to speak, but now you only caught half the words. He dad was straight-up calling him gay in the middle of street, and he barely reacted because he was too busy feeling anxious about said redheaded bitch.

Ian. Goddamnit, Mickey had to go warn Ian. He was loathe to leave his father alone, even if he didn’t like being around him. Terry was like a natural disaster, awe-inspiring in its capacity to destroy, but you didn’t want it at your back either. 

But Mickey didn’t have to time to reunite with this asshole. He left his dad standing in the street, but not before Terry got a chance to yell: “Run away, ya little faggot. Go ‘head.”

Mickey ground his teeth, knowing he should want to go back and throw a punch at Terry’s wide, fleshy face more than anything, but he instead he felt harried and old and weighed down with more important problems than scrapping with his dad. Rounding the corner, he ran up the porch to Kev and V’s house. He pounded on the front door relentlessly, mentally running through patrol schedules and trying to figure out if Kev was off tonight or over on the north-side barrier, until he heard shuffling and the agonizing slow movements of someone coming sleepily to the front door.

“While we’re fucking young here, for fuck’s sake,” Mickey yelled.

“Keep your shirt on, I’m gestating young life over here!” Veronica called out grumpily before she opened the door. “Milkovich?” She yawned, but her face was tense. “What is it? What happened?”

“Where’s Kev?”

Veronica turned to holler over her shoulder for her husband. Kev came lumbering out of the hallway after a beat, eyes puffy and tired. He raised his eyebrows at Mickey. “Everything okay, Mick?”

Mickey ran his hands over his head, grabbing hard onto his hair in a bid to steady himself. “Not really. You need to get down to the Alibi, I think you might need to make sure the supply is secure.”

“Why would I need to do that?” Kev asked, frowning.

“Someone having a party?” Veronica snorted like the idea was ridiculous.

“In a manner of speaking.” Mickey paused. “Terry’s back.” 

Kev and Veronica swore like a song in the rounds. When Terry was around, it meant drinking and fighting and general upheaval, the last type of environment you wanted around a fast-dwindling supply of food and water. Mickey didn’t have to go into detail to explain that it also meant danger for him, and possibly Ian as well. Kev and V just exchanged a look, understanding in both their expressions. 

The details of what had happened to Ian and Mickey the day Mickey’s dad had caught them literally with their pants down were not entirely common knowledge in either the Gallagher or Ball households, but there had evolved to be a generally understanding of events. 

In the chaos of the first night of the zombies, all anyone noticed at first was that Ian showed up late at the Gallagher house long after everyone had assumed the worst. Fiona and Ian’s other siblings had been so overjoyed to see Ian alive that they hadn’t noticed at first that he had not come alone, or that he and Mickey seemed to be especially, and very similarly, bruised and bloody. The two boys helped board up the front door and downstairs windows with sofas and chairs and the kitchen table, staying as quiet as they could to avoid attracting notice from the shrieking zombies outside. 

That first night, as the streets had begun to settle from the active violence of earlier, the carnage remained clear. As they boarded up the last window, Mickey remembered seeing bodies lying on the lawn, and feral people staggering and yelping and snarling in groups as they paced up and down the block. It gave him literal chills.

Debbie was wrapped around Fiona the whole time, Carl curled under the stairs with a wide-eyed Liam in his arms. Mickey had had the irrational and unexpected desire to wrap himself around Ian, but had settled for following him like a shadow. Veronica and Kev had holed up with the Gallaghers that first night, all the older kids and adults speaking very little as the gravity of the situation began to slowly dawn on them.

When Ian had announced Mickey would be staying the night in the Gallagher house, Fiona had waited to ask Ian why Mickey was even there in the first place. 

Mickey had overheard the hallways conversation from where he was crouched spreading out a blanket on the floor beside Ian’s bed.

“Ian, why is Mickey Milkovich with us?”

Mickey froze at his name. He heard Ian pulling blankets and pillows down from the hall cabinet. “It’s too dangerous for him to go home, you saw those things out there. Besides, it’s safer with him here. You know he’s armed.”

“Always a good thing in a house full of little kids,” Fiona said, sounding exasperated and panicked and totally exhausted.

“Fiona,” Ian’s voice was low. “You know this isn’t really the time for a gun control debate.”

Fiona exhaled noisily. Her voice sounded weepy. “Yeah, I know.” Mickey strained to listen, as Fiona’s next words were even quieter than before. “But why is he even here with you? I didn’t think you two were friends. Last I heard he wanted to kick your ass.”

“Well, sometimes he still wants that, I think,” Ian said. Mickey had smirked at the smile in his voice, even in the middle of all this, because what a fucking smartass.

“Ian, why is your face all fucked up?” There was a rustle, as Mickey assumed Fiona pulled Ian close to examine his bruises and the drying blood on his face. “Jesus, you look like shit. Is this from those things outside? Mickey looked rough too, were you guys fighting them together?” Fiona’s voice was rising in panic.

“No, no, this is nothing, this is from earlier,” Ian said, soothingly, dismissively. Until he realized what he’d said, and went quiet. Mickey went still too. “I mean. This wasn’t—”

“Ian, did someone else do this to you?” Fiona cut in. In the long quiet, Mickey could hear the house settling, and the shrieks from outside rising and falling in volume. 

“Terry Milkovich,” Ian finally said. 

“Mickey’s dad? Why would Terry Milkovich beat the shit out of you?” Mickey didn’t have to be looking at her to know Fiona’s eyebrows must’ve been arched incredulously. In a flash, he remembered that Ian had said he'd come out to Fiona earlier in the year. Still, in an abstract way he was kind of impressed with how quickly she connected the dots. “You’re not…you and Mickey, you two aren’t…are you guys…”

Ian interrupted Fiona’s trailing-off sentence. “I can’t really talk about it, Fi.”

There was a sound of muffled movement, which meant the siblings were either hugging or trying to silently smother each other to death, but Mickey assumed it was the first thing. A minute later Ian had come into the room and gotten into bed above Mickey's spot on the floor, and Mickey had pretended like he hadn’t heard anything. He didn’t know why he played it cool. Just ten hours earlier, he would’ve whooped Ian’s ass for even half of what he’d heard. But in that moment, and so many moments since, he couldn’t work up the energy. The real enemy was bigger and wilder and more impossible to predict than a thousand Terrys. So context was apparently important, when it came to outing their relationship-whatever, Mickey had come to understand. It still wasn’t his favorite thing to do.

Nearly a month later, with the specter of Terry’s return hovering over him, he waited impatiently for Kev to go and play damage control at the bar.

Kev stooped to pull on his boots. “On it, boss.” He straightened and leaned over to kiss Veronica, then walked outside. “Watch out, the Fun Police are on their way, ready to shut down any and all good times!” he called out behind him as he hurried toward the Alibi.

Mickey turned back to Veronica, who was watching him tensely. “You need to go warn your boy.”

He nodded, not bothering to protest the thousands of implications behind Veronica’s words.

“And we need to talk about storing our food and booze and shit somewhere else,” Veronica said. She wasn’t looking at Mickey, instead following Kev’s figure worriedly as he disappeared around the block. “If your dad and his merry band of idiots find the squirrel stash, we might as well pull down the barricades and string a ‘We Welcome Our New Zombie Overlords’ banner across the motherfucking street.”

Mickey nodded tersely, but he was already moving on to the next clusterfuck of the night, which waited behind the door to the Gallagher house.

“Ian!” he yelled as he let himself in, not bothering to keep his voice down. He knew Fiona, Lip and Carl were all off-duty tonight and wouldn’t appreciate being woken up, but he didn’t have time to worry about that as he raced upstairs. “Ian!”

“Jesus, Mickey, what’s wrong?” Fiona’s voice was alarmed coming from her room but Mickey didn’t slow down, hurrying into the room he shared with Ian. Ian was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and Mickey stopped at the sight, his chest feeling tight.

“Ian,” he said again, but quieter this time. Ian was right there. Ian was fine.

“Mick, what’s going on. What’s wrong?” Ian demanded, standing up to come over to Mickey. 

“My dad’s back.”

“What?!” Lip and Fiona exclaimed in unison, startling the shit out of Mickey. He yelped and spun around. The two of them were huddled in the doorway of Mickey and Ian’s room, looking sleepy and nervous.

“I said, Terry’s back.” Mickey turned back to Ian, whose eyebrows were raised. “He just got back, he’s with a bunch of guys he used to work with and there’s a bunch of girls with them, Russian whores or some shit.”

“Jesus.” Ian reached a hand out and cupped Mickey’s face. “You okay?”

Mickey jerked away, conscious of Lip and Fiona behind them. “I’m fine.” Ian didn’t seem to notice the audience, because h reached out to touch Mickey again and this time Mickey slapped his hand away. Ian recoiled. He felt guilty at the look of dismay on Ian’s face, but jesus, did the kid have no discretion? They couldn’t just touch each other like that anymore, not now, with his dad and his friends in town.

He felt like he was falling backwards, like he was dropping through a wormhole back to his life nearly a month ago, when he lived under his father’s thumb and in constant fear that people would find out that him and Ian were together. It was like he was having a panic attack. He heard Ian say his name, but it seemed to be from across a football field. 

His dad was going to kill him, and Ian. They were fucked.

He shook himself mentally. No. Things were different now. Fuck, there were fucking zombies everywhere, of course they were different. And things were different with Ian, too. The two of them were different. His dad suddenly popping up again like a fucking daisy wasn’t going to change that. Everything was different.

Coming back to himself, he saw Ian watching him worriedly, Fiona and Lip crowding nearer. Mickey must look like a fucking lunatic, he thought to himself, gasping and getting all sweaty at the mere mention of his dad. What a fucking pussy he was.

“I’m okay,” he said. Fiona and Lip eased away, exchanging a look.

“I’ll go get Kev and V, they need to know that that fucking hurricane is back,” Lip said. 

“I already told them,” Mickey said. “Kev went down to the Alibi. Terry and his friends all went down to celebrate.”

“Shit,” Lip said. “Do they know that’s where we keep everything?”

“Probably not yet, but it’s not like we’ve got things locked down like Fort Knox down there,” Mickey said.

“Shit,” Lip said again. He and Fiona left the room, and Mickey heard the door slam as they both ostensibly set off to help Kev at the bar.

Alone, Mickey let himself step forward and put a hand on Ian’s shoulder, but Ian shrugged him off, going to pull his jeans on. 

“Just like old times, huh?” Ian said, his mouth curling into what passed for a sneer on Ian’s naturally good-natured face. Mickey wanted to protest, tell him he was being fucking dramatic, but he didn’t. He wasn’t sure that Ian was wrong, and it made him want to yell and break things. 

Because fuck. His dad was back.


	7. Chapter 7

The day after Terry tore back into town was like waking up the morning after a hurricane. In the wee hours of the morning, Ian surveyed the wreckage of the Alibi alongside Kev and Veronica. Veronica clucked her tongue.

“Well, at least they got so drunk they passed out before they thought about going upstairs to look around. Thank the lord for small miracles, I guess,” she said. She didn’t bother to keep her voice down. After all, you can’t wake the dead, or the truly and completely hammered.

The night before, Kev had done his best to slow the pack down as they ripped apart the Alibi like rabid wolves, but he was only one man. When Fiona and Lip had joined to help, Kev had pulled them aside, shaking his head in resignation. 

“You ever watched those time-elapsed videos of insects eating a corpse so fast it looks like it’s dissolving?” Lip had said, reporting back later at the Gallaghers' crowded kitchen table later that night. He’d left Kev at the bar around three in the morning. “There was no stopping those fuckers. Your dad’s a tank, man,” Lip said to Mickey, who had just bitten his lip worriedly. It made Ian feel helpless to see.

Ian had spent the rest of the night helping Lip, Mickey and Veronica make a plan, while Fiona paced the house worriedly, chasing the smaller kids off to bed.

In the cool early morning light, Terry and his friends were passed the fuck out in the Alibi, some snoring, slumped against walls and in booths, and the whole place smelled like piss and vomit.

“I know it goes without saying, but in the interest of being thorough: all the booze is now gone,” Kev said. 

“Even that novelty jumbo bottle of champagne from three years ago,” Ian observed, pointing at the giant bottle upended on its side. “I could’ve sworn it was nothing but helium by now.” He sighed, leaning against the door.

He could hear the faint noises from upstairs as Lip and Mickey worked through inventory of the remaining supplies. Ian wished they’d hurry the fuck up. He and Kev and V were keeping an eye on Terry and his gang, waiting for the signal to start transporting everything from upstairs to the street and then on to their new secure location. Or at least as secure as they could find, which meant that it wasn’t very secure at all. It was the Gallagher house.

He couldn’t help but creep closer to Terry, the monster himself, who was sprawled under a booth near the front. Terry was snoring loudly, one arm wrapped around a woman with dyed red hair who was passed out across his chest. 

In sleep, he looked like any other old drunk, but Ian knew better. When he looked at him, all he saw was Terry holding Mickey down and whaling on him mercilessly, until Mickey’s head had lolled to the side and his eyes were nearly swollen shut.

He had a near-uncontrollable urge to stomp his foot down on Terry’s head, crush through the skull and brain until his fucking face was nothing but pulp. The urge frightened him a little in its intensity. 

At that moment Mickey and Lip appeared at the top of the stairs, weighed down with three big cardboard boxes each.

“Operation: Relocate The Squirrel Stash is a go, people,” Lip whispered. He managed to grin, even though his face was tense.

Ian hurried up past Lip and Mickey to get an armful of his own. V watched the door, while Kev joined Ian on the stairs. Fiona and the kids, along with a few other neighbors (Batty Sheila, Kermit, Mickey’s brothers) were waiting outside to relay the stash from the door of the Alibi to its new home at the Gallaghers.

The plan was slapdash, and the logistics were a pain in the ass. Too many people knew about the new location, for starters, and Lip and Fiona had been vocal in their disapproval over keeping the Milkovich brothers in the loop. They had to abandon all the clean drinking water they’d saved in drums behind the bar. But Ian supposed it was everyone’s fault for not thinking ahead. The Alibi was a bar, not a fortress, and the location of the squirrel stash had been an open secret since almost the day Mickey had started organizing the neighborhood supply.

Moving slowly like they were transporting nitroglycerin (and if the gang passed out on the Alibi floor woke up to see the neighborhood was hiding supplies from them, it would be very much like a bomb went off), Ian kept going up and down until the stash upstairs was relocated to the Gallaghers’ basement, which still looked and smelled like a meth den, but what could you do.

“We’re getting low, man,” Mickey said to him as Ian handed off his last set of boxes to Kermit on the street, then rose to stretch out his back. “I thought we had enough to at least last another month, but I guess I was a fucking idiot.”

Ian shrugged. Mickey had done his best to get all the houses in the neighborhood to gather all their food together, and they’d commandeered nearly every spare keg and plastic drum to store water behind the bar, but Ian was sure people were still hoarding. He supposed it was natural. But the squirrel stash had been the key to forcing cooperation out of the rest of the neighborhood. Sure, most people wanted to patrol to keep themselves and their family’s safe, but the knowledge that there was a central food bank they could rely on, that was the carrot that kept people showing up on schedule at the barricade. They were going to be truly fucked if they lost that inducement.

“We’ll talk to Sheila, see what she has to say,” Ian said. Sheila had been left in charge of distribution for the squirrel stash, and she ran the operation with an iron fist. No one got extra hand-outs, and she’d have the best idea of how much longer their supply would stretch.

For now, Ian turned to Mickey. “Mission accomplished!” he said with a laugh, holding up both hands for a double high-five.

“Fucking nerd,” Mickey scoffed, but he slapped Ian’s hands anyway. Ian squeezed for a second and Mickey pulled away, glancing behind him at where his brothers were lingering. Ian felt his smile fall. And here they were again.

Iggy and Joey came up to Mickey, Colin not far behind. “So what are we going to do about Dad?” Iggy asked. 

Ian could tell Mickey’s brothers were at a loss. They feared their father, but Mickey had always been a more benevolent leader, and in the past few weeks he had earned their loyalty. But they were just wolves in a pack, and they would ultimately follow whoever they perceived to be stronger.

“What the fuck you assholes talking about?” Terry’s voice croaked out from the Alibi door. Ian and Mickey spun around, Mickey’s brothers looking down guiltily.

“Hey, Pop. You’re up,” Iggy said. 

“Goddamn right I’m up,” Terry said. He hocked a loogie and spat on the ground, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets. His eyes came to rest on Ian. “So this queer’s still around, eh?”

Ian went immediately tense, but not as tense as his brother and his boyfriend. Lip had been talking to Fiona by the corner and jogged back over at the sound of Terry’s voice, and was now stepping forward toward the old man. Mickey moved so Ian was slightly behind his body. Ian rolled his eyes, since he was both taller and in better shape than both of them. They succeeded in diverting Terry’s attention, however.

“Look what the undead cat dragged in,” Lip said, smiling lazily. 

Terry flipped him off. “I guess it's true what they say about the end of the world, only fucking cockroaches survive. Should’ve figured the pack of you Gallaghers would make it out of this shit.” He nodded at Mickey and his brothers. “And you assholes just fell into line with ‘em, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t like that, Dad,” Colin said weakly. Joey and Iggy nodded.

“We didn’t even know if you were alive,” Iggy added.

“Looks like you were all crying yourselves to sleep over it,” Terry said softly, the threat of violence pouring off him in a near-visible wave. Mickey’s brothers rushed to protest, but Mickey just made a scoffing sound. Terry whipped around to look at him. “Got something to say to me, faggot?”

Mickey moved to step forward, but Ian grabbed at his elbow. “Keep it together, man,” he said lowly. Mickey didn’t respond, but he planted his feet anyway.

Terry caught the subtle movement and laughed, the sound ugly. “That’s right, sweetheart, listen to your girlfriend. Wouldn’t want to have to fuck up that pretty face of yours again.”

This time Mickey shook Ian’s arm off and stalked forward, Terry moving to meet him. It looked like a rumble was about to go down, but in the end, Mickey’s brothers grabbed Terry back and Ian and Lip pulled on Mickey, the moment tight and tense, father and son glaring darkly.

Kev stepped out of the Alibi, taking in the scene. “Love a good family reunion!” he said jovially. He stepped in the middle of the group, deliberately placing his large body between Mickey and his father. “Terry, my man. How you been? I was wondering when you’d make it back, didn’t think you’d be able to stay away from your old stomping grounds for long.”

Terry glanced at Kev, distracted. “What are you all doing out here anyway?” Terry asked, frowning suspiciously. He glanced at the sky, the sun just beginning to rise. “What’s going on?”

“Came to find you, Dad,” Iggy said. Ian was impressed with Iggy’s smoothness, since to his knowledge the guy usually folded under pressure. “Wanted to see if you were gonna come back and stay at the house.”

Miraculously, the misdirection worked. 

“Goddamn right I’m staying at my own goddamn house,” Terry said, shaking his sons off of him. “Svetlana and the girls’ll be staying with us too.”

Svetlana? Ian mouthed at Mickey. Mickey shrugged. 

Terry went off with his other sons, before giving Mickey one last scathing look. Mickey lunged after him, but Ian and Lip held him back. Terry shook his head and left for the Milkovich house.

“Looks like he’s getting the band back together again,” Lip said, nodding at Mickey’s brothers’ retreating backs as they followed Terry obediently down the street. “Hope they play some of the old hits.”

“Would you shut up?” Ian said, pulling Mickey away before he had a chance to snap at Lip. 

Mickey yanked himself out of Ian’s grip and went off down the street in the opposite direction of Terry, heading for the north-side barricade, the boy’s short, compact body rigid with suppressed rage. Ian was left to jog and catch up with him.

“Don’t make me chase after you like some bitch, man,” Ian called. Mickey didn’t slow down, ducking down a side street.

“Fuck!” he shouted. He punched at the brick wall, so hard it made Ian wince. Then he did it again, and again, and again, swearing louder and louder. He was smearing blood on the brick and Ian knew his knuckles were getting torn to shreds. He grabbed at Mickey’s shoulder to stop him, and Mickey spun around, throwing a wild punch.

Ian dodged, throwing his arms up. “Easy there, Heater.”

Mickey froze, looking down at his hand, which was still clenched into a bloody fist. He seemed to pale a little. “Jesus, man. I didn’t mean—”

“I know, Mick,” Ian said. He moved cautiously closer to Mickey, refraining from touching him again. “I know. Just, chill for a second.” He made exaggerated inhale-exhale motions. Mickey rolled his eyes.

“Very soothing. Thanks for the workshop,” he snapped, but he let Ian take another step closer. Ian pressed one shoulder against Mickey’s experimentally, and almost like the air being slowly let out of a balloon, he felt Mickey slump slightly. 

After he collected himself, Mickey straightened. “I’ve got patrol,” he said, his voice grouchy.

Ian snorted. “No you don’t, you big liar.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“Well, maybe not all of it, but right now this minute I know for a fact you swapped barricade duty with Shannon Kincaid so you could move the squirrel stash this morning.” Mickey’s throat worked a little as he tried to come up with a counter-argument, but he failed, and Ian grinned in triumph. He made a fist, then spread his fingers wide. “Boom goes the dynamite.”

Mickey fought it for a few seconds, but then he burst out laughing so loudly he spat a little. Ian grinned, watching Mickey lean over, laughing so hard he was shaking, until the laughter trailed off and Mickey closed his eyes tiredly.

Ian cautiously took Mickey’s right hand, and Mickey let him. He examined the other boy’s fist, frowning at the torn skin. That hand was going to be sore as hell tomorrow.

Mickey was still breathing unsteadily. Ian released his injured fist and nudged him with his shoulder. “Come on Mick, let’s go hide out somewhere. I think you need a break.”

“What, you want to go braid each other’s hair or something?” Mickey said, but he followed Ian anyway as he began heading up the street to the Gallagher house.

Ian smirked and reached into his pocket. He had the perfect distraction in mind. 

“No, I was thinking more along the lines of fucking you so hard you walk funny later,” he said.

Holding out for a minute to build suspense, he pulled out a small plastic bottle, flashing it to Mickey in the palm of his hand before putting it back in his pocket, and watched Mickey swallow, eyes glued to Ian’s pocket where the plastic bottle had disappeared.

“I was starting to think that lube was a myth,” Mickey said throatily, trying to sneer but the flush rising up his neck betrayed his excitement.

“Nope. It’s very real,” Ian said. They were almost to the edge of the street and Ian began crowding into Mickey’s space, herding him around the corner, brushing his arms and legs against him with every step. Mickey seemed a little out of breath at the contact, but then he stopped.

“But,” he swallowed, his voice hoarse. “But Debbie and Carl and Liam are all at your house.”

“So?” Ian asked impatiently, trying to tug Mickey along, but he wouldn’t budge. He looked at Ian, his eyes almost pleading. Ian sighed, because sometimes being with Mickey was a pain in the ass if you couldn’t read minds, as he was left trying to magically divine what the older boy wanted that he couldn’t put into words.

Then it clicked. Mickey wanted to be loud. They couldn’t be loud in the middle of the day in a house full of kids.

“So you want some privacy, huh?” Ian said. He chanced stepping closer, so he was breathing the words right into Mickey’s face. Mickey didn’t nod, but Ian saw his eyes flutter slightly, and that was all the confirmation he needed.

Ian glanced up and down the street, then grabbed Mickey’s arm and pulled him down the alley just behind the Gallagher’s street. 

Like most neighborhoods in Chicago, most houses in the South Side had detached garages behind them that faced onto alleys. Ian hadn’t been into the garage behind his family’s house in years but decided now was as good a time as any to go exploring. He threw his shoulder against the warped wood of the door once, twice, finally hearing the rusted lock give on the third shove. He wrestled the door open, pushing through until the early-morning light from outside illuminated the inside of the garage.

There was an old, stained mattress on the cement ground inside. The air was stuffy and smelled like old cigarette smoke and stale beer.

“Some hobo must’ve been crashing here or something,” Ian said.

“So, Frank, basically,” Mickey said. He sounded jittery, obviously still amped from the standoff with his dad.

“Probably.” Ian raised an eyebrow. “Talk about good luck though, huh?” He nodded at the dirty mattress and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Finally, we can catch chlamydia together,” Mickey said flatly, eyeing the mattress and the germs most likely lurking within with distaste.

“Good god, such a princess,” Ian muttered. He pulled the sweatshirt he’d tied around his waist off and crouched down to lay it over the worst stains. He pulled his t-shirt over the top of his head and placed it higher up on the mattress too, doing his best to cover the worst discolorations. He glanced up at Mickey.

“That good enough?”

Mickey was looking at him oddly. Ian slapped his hands against the clothes covering the mattress. “Or I can be on bottom, if you want.” Mickey’s expression didn’t change, he still looked quietly mystified, like Ian was some alien creature he’d never seen before.

Mickey opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again before making a frustrated sound and lurching toward Ian, pressing a deep kiss to his mouth.

Ian made a surprised sound in the back of his throat at the intensity, kissing Mickey back intently. Ian eased Mickey down until they were both kneeling on the mattress, pausing to pull Mickey’s shirt over his head.

He tried to go slow, but Mickey’s movements were desperate, grabbing at Ian’s waist and shoulders, pressing his hips to Ian’s mercilessly. It was like he wanted to lose himself, forget everything outside this tiny garage. Ian felt himself getting carried away and pulled back, ignoring Mickey’s whine of protest.

“Hey, man,” he whispered, moving his hands to cradle Mickey’s head. “It’s cool, it’s okay. Shhh,” he soothed, kissing Mickey softly. Mickey tried to deepen the kiss but Ian pulled back, chuckling a little breathlessly. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Mickey swallowed but assumed the position, still in his jeans and boxers and shoes. Ian felt himself go hard just looking at his half-clothed goofball of a closeted fuck-buddy. Man, he was crazy about the guy. 

Ian settled behind Mickey, dragging his mouth over the pale skin of his shoulders and back, pausing to lick around the dip of his lower back. Mickey moaned, his hands clenching a little into the fabric of Ian’s hoodie below him. Ian crawled forward so he was caging Mickey in with his body.

He kissed his way up his neck and paused at the skin behind his ear, nibbling and taking his earlobe into his mouth, using his teeth just a little. Mickey gasped, his breath quickening, and Ian could feel the other boy’s hips starting to move restlessly. 

“You know what I want to do?” he whispered into the back of Mickey’s neck. 

“Hm?” Mickey hummed, then twitched as Ian sucked a mark into the skin at the top of his spine.

“I want to eat you out til you’re screaming for it.” He felt Mickey quiver underneath him. “God, I just want to taste you everywhere, and then I want to pound you into this mattress.” He kissed Mickey’s neck again. “Can I do that?”

Mickey made a choked sound and nodded, the motion choppy. “Are you sure…I mean, are you sure you want to…” The older boy trailed off, a flush running up his chest and neck.

Ian grinned, loving that Mickey could still be bashful after everything. They’d rimmed each other a few times before, but usually only when they were drunk and feeling bold and even then only for a hot minute before they got on to the good stuff. They had all morning this time, though, and Ian was going to make sure they used it.

He sat back up, unzipping his own pants slowly and reaching in to grab his stiff cock. “Oh yeah, I’m sure.” His eyes were on Mickey’s ass, which even covered in baggy jeans was mouth-watering. With his other hand, he pulled the lube from his pocket and tossed it on the mattress so Mickey could turn his head and see. “Banana-flavored, bitch.”

Mickey laughed, the tension beginning to ease out of him. Ian knew he needed this, needed to forget for a while, and he wanted Mickey pliant enough to actually enjoy it.

Still going slow, he wiggled out of his pants and pushed down his boxers before leaning against Mickey again, fisting his cock to press it to Mickey’s ass through his pants. Mickey pressed back with a grunt that Ian privately considered adorable.

He reached around and tickled lightly at Mickey’s lower belly, making him squirm, before moving lower and unbuckling his belt and popping open his jeans, sliding the material slowly up and over until Mickey was just in his boxers. Ian leaned forward until his face was pressed against the thin boxer material, right over Mickey’s hole. He blew softly and Mickey shivered as Ian nosed at his crack, the older boy starting to push back insistently before Ian finally relented and pulled down his boxers so they were taught at Mickey’s bent knees.

Ian stood up on his knees, taking in the sight. He breathed out slowly, his heart starting to pound. “Damn, Mick. You’re so fucking hot like this,” he whispered, reaching out to wrap a hand around Mickey’s right ass cheek and giving it a shake, before pulling back to slap at it sharply. He was entranced, loving the way the flesh jiggled at the gentle violence, the sound of protest Mickey made. He put his hand back on Mickey’s ass again and reached for the bottle of lube on the mattress. He couldn’t help but drag one finger up the smooth inside of Mickey’s wrist as he pulled back, watching Mickey roll his shoulders at the tickling sensation.

He squeezed out a healthy amount onto one finger and began rubbing it around Mickey’s hole, teasing his entrance until Mickey started to pant and Ian decided to press his index finger slowly inside.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed out. He was so tight. With everything going on it felt like forever since they’d last fucked, and Ian wanted to make it perfect.

Pulling out so he could use both hands to spread Mickey’s cheeks, he swooped in and licked a long stripe up his crack and over his hole, making Mickey gasp a little in surprise. Ian groaned, the tang of the lube and the taste of Mickey underneath making it impossible for him to do anything but dive back in and attack his ass, licking and swirling his tongue over the hole.

Mickey was a mess, gasping, moaning Ian’s name, his knees and arms shaking to hold himself up. Ian couldn’t get enough, his cock throbbing against his stomach as he got more and more turned on.

Time passes weird when you have your tongue up your boyfriend’s ass, Ian thought hazily. It could have been hours since Ian first began rimming him, but he had no idea, his thoughts indistinct, his tongue sloppy as he finally exerted just enough pressure to pass the outer ring of muscle. Mickey was babbling, “Yeah, oh jesus, please don’t stop, please, please,” and it only got worse as Ian began sliding his finger in and out slowly along his tongue.

Ian couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled back, wiping his mouth against his free hand as Mickey pushed backwards to try and keep Ian’s tongue in him. Ian took the opportunity to fill Mickey up with another finger instead, waiting for Mickey’s moan before adding a third and twisting and prodding to hit that spot that made Mickey arch his back and keen a little. 

“You ready?” Ian panted, leaning forward to mouth at Mickey’s neck.

“Just fucking do it,” Mickey muttered irritably, pushing back on the fingers inside of him, his skin sweaty and pink.

“So pushy,” Ian said, chuckling. He squeezed out some more lube and rubbed it all along his dick before lining up with Mickey’s entrance. He paused, teasing them both with the sensation of his cock head against Mickey’s slightly swollen hole, until Mickey groaned and hooked a leg backward, pulling clumsily at Ian’s hips. Ian pushed inside him, bottoming out and going still to let them both adjust.

“Oh, fuck,” Mickey said thickly. “Oh, fuck. Fuck.”

“You okay?”

“Just fucking move, for the love of god.” Mickey sounded drunk. 

Ian grabbed hold of the older boy’s hips tightly and began pounding into him. God, Mickey felt so good around him, he sounded so good, Ian could still taste him on his lips and it was driving him crazy. He sped up, luxuriating in the tightness, before circling his hips, working to find that spot inside Mickey that drove him wild. He knew he found it when Mickey arched his back, yelping with each thrust until Ian was on the edge from the sounds alone. With a grunt, he pulled Mickey up so he was on his knees and Ian could wrap his arms around him as he fucked him as hard as he could, trying to get the angle right so he hit his prostate at every go. He reached down to jerk him off as well and Mickey’s moaning was almost constant now. Mickey turned his head so his was face was pressed to Ian’s neck, and Ian could feel the sounds he was making vibrating against him. Mickey reached back to hold onto Ian’s hips, his nails digging into the skin.

“Ian, fuck, I’m gonna…” Mickey trailed off, the words becoming a wail. Ian twisted his hand more roughly on Mickey’s cock, his own pace inside him redoubling as he worked to follow him around the bend.

When Ian came, it felt like being kicked in the back of the head. He vaguely heard Mickey screaming in front of him, but all he could do was keep rubbing the other boy’s cock unevenly as he felt himself come inside of Mickey, the warm feeling of Mickey’s cum spurting over Ian’s hand and across Mickey’s chest, some even landing on Ian’s shoulder somehow.

He collapsed on top of Mickey, still thrusting softly. He knew he was probably crushing him but he didn’t have the energy to roll off yet.

Eventually Mickey started to squirm and Ian heaved himself sideways so they were lying side by side. To Ian’s slight surprise, he felt Mickey turn so he was pressed to his side.

He’d been a little standoffish since his dad had returned, and Ian relished in the feeling of Mickey’s sweaty body wrapped around him. He tangled their feet together as they both waited for their bodies to cool down.

“Well, holy shit,” Mickey finally managed, his voice exhausted.

Ian huffed out a laugh. “I want to high-five you, but I think I’m paralyzed.” 

They were quiet, each tracing patterns on the other’s skin. Ian felt their balance settling back to their normal they had achieved in the wake of the zombie attacks, before Terry had come back and fucked everything up.

“Hey,” Mickey said quietly after a bit. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Ian nodded and hugged Mickey a little tighter, even though the garage was stuffy and the hot summer air was getting uncomfortable. A fierce wave of singular protectiveness made it almost impossible for Ian to let Mickey go in that moment.

That was where they differed, Ian supposed. Mickey felt responsible for everyone these days, the weight of protecting the whole neighborhood nearly wearing him down. Ian felt responsible for only one person. Sure, he worried about his family, but they had each other. Mickey only had him.

Lately, his entire world had narrowed to fit just one grouchy, unruly hoodlum who fit perfectly against his chest, and as he held him for a few more peaceful moments now, Ian was coming to find he was incredibly okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could play it cooler and space out publishing these chapters some more, but 1) I am not cool, and 2) this has turned into the perfect distraction from my dissertation. Hope I'm not overloading you guys, but in apology I added some more smut to this one. Fair warning, things are about to get rough in Zombie Shameless World, but until then, have some sex! :)


	8. Chapter 8

As Mickey predicted, the meeting at the Alibi about the changing state of the zombies was a mind-numbing chore. All he wanted to do was duck out early, but he was more or less running the meeting, which had been an oversight on his part. Times like this he seriously hated people.

“But how can a zombie evolve?” Old Man Zimmer, a crazy World War Two vet from the end of the block, called out into the din. “A zombie’s dead. Can’t evolve when you’re dead.” 

“Old man yells at cloud,” Lip muttered under his breath.

The neighborhood at large was having trouble grasping that the zombies were behaving differently. Mickey thought grudgingly that it wasn’t that people couldn’t tell, all the adults and older kids crowded in the Alibi patrolled regularly, it was that people didn’t want to believe.

Mickey rubbed his eyes from his chair at the front of the room. Lip and Veronica were on either side of him, but the hierarchy was subtle. People from the neighborhood were crowded into every corner of the bar and up close to the three at the front, so to an outside observer it just looked like an angry mob.

“A zombie can’t talk,” a woman’s voice rose up from the back of the room. “If it can’t talk, how can it communicate with another zombie?”

“It looks like it’s mostly non-verbal communication at this point,” Lip answered, but the crowd didn’t want to hear it. The din grew as people mused on the nature of zombies, the nature of communication, the nature of the apocalypse itself, and Mickey mused on the sweet relief of getting black-out drunk.

He’d called off full patrols for this shit show. The barricades were barely manned so more people could make it to the meeting, and for what? So a group of idiots could yell at each other and refuse to believe what was right in front of their faces?

Finally he stood up. “Shut the fuck up!” he shouted. It took a few more tries, but eventually people quieted down. They wanted to hear what he had to say, which Mickey could honestly say was a plot twist he never saw coming. “We’re not asking you whether you think the zombies are changing, we’re telling you: the zombies are fucking changing. And we need to change the way we patrol.

“We need to start hunting them!” Someone shouted, and Mickey rolled his eyes when he saw that it was Iggy. Asshole just wouldn’t let his beyond-the-barricades patrol idea die.

“That’s not what I meant,” Mickey said. “We need to outsmart the zombies, not just shoot them when they’re practically on top of us.”

“That’s what I’m fucking saying!” Iggy shouted, and Mickey was irritated to see a few people nodding at his idea. All hail the king of the idiots, he thought sourly.

Lip stood up to get everyone’s attention. “We're thinking more along the lines of misdirection,” Lip explained. “If we keep them distracted, we don’t have to waste ammo on killing them.”

Lip did a decent enough job explaining Mickey’s idea from the night before. Zombies were attracted to sight and sound. They’d been lighting up the north barricade at night, because it was the biggest and Mickey had assumed the most vulnerable. But looking over the notes from the last week, he realized that was early-days understanding of zombie behavior. What they needed to do was use the zombies’ natural tendencies against them. Keep them running in circles.

“So if we quickly ignite and extinguish a barricade, we can draw the zombies to one side of the neighborhood, then light the next one and keep them moving to another side,” Lip said. There was a contemplative silence.

“Fucking genius up there thinks he’s got zombies all figured out,” someone called out. Mickey recognized the bluster in the voice immediately, and was unsurprised when Terry stepped forward. He'd emerged from the Milkovich house that evening hungover and cantankerous, insisting on attending the meeting with his other sons. “We just supposed to trust you on faith, College?”

Terry’s main supporters, the men he’d arrived with along with Mickey’s uncles, voiced their agreement. The rest of the crowd began to murmur, sounding divided.

Lip looked at Terry coldly. “Actually, I didn’t think up this plan. I actually had no idea how we could fight the zombies better,” Lip admitted. Mickey was surprised. That dickhead would usually be more likely to punch himself in the head than admit he wasn’t the smartest fucker in the room.

“Oh no, smart guy? Big surprise,” Terry scoffed. 

“Actually, it was your son who came up with it,” Lip sad, nodding at Mickey. 

“Thanks for making me a part of this, asshole,” Mickey muttered. He didn’t need people to know it was his idea, he just needed them to do what they were told.

Terry raised his eyebrows in surprise. “That fucker?”

Ian crossed his arms from his spot in the corner, catching Mickey’s eye and making a face. Mickey smirked.

“That fucking idiot couldn’t plan his way out of a paper bag unless there was a faggot’s asshole at the end of it.” That pronouncement went over like an uneasy lead balloon. People in the bar were shifting uncomfortably. 

Mickey’s sexual orientation was quickly becoming the worst-kept secret in Chicago, he thought with a grimace. 

“Fucking playing house with that fucking redheaded faggot, like he’s fucking in charge or some shit,” Terry went on. The bar had gone silent as a tomb.

“Think those zombies out there are the problem, let me tell you it’s the queers. Fucking queers all the over the place.” A few of Mickey’s neighbors were slowly easing their way away from his dad. Terry couldn’t seem to tell that he was slowly losing the room.

But Terry wasn’t done. Mickey noticed he was swaying a little. Where had he found more booze? Fucker was slick. “Thinks he can take it up the ass and then come around here and tell us all what to do, well he’s fucking wrong, is what he is.” Terry was practically muttering to himself at this point, and Mickey found himself oddly fascinated for a minute, but then he noticed Ian staring at him. Ian held his gaze. 

Mickey noticed the rest of bar was looking uneasily between him and his dad, like they were waiting for something. Mickey realized they were waiting on him. Some of them looked impatient, like they wanted to get back to the business at hand. He couldn’t blame them.

He felt an odd type of pressure building up in his chest, a weird anxiety meshed with anticipation. He felt on the edge of a precipice. 

Before he realized what he was doing, Mickey was standing and beating on the bar with his hand. “Hey!” he yelled, cutting his dad off mid-ramble. Terry quieted, seeming astounded that Mickey would have the balls to interrupt. “I just want everyone here to know, I’m fucking gay. A big ol’ mo.” 

There was a stunned silence. Mickey coughed. “Just to get it out of the way,” he mumbled, losing his nerve a little. His hands were sweaty as hell and he felt short of breath now that the initial adrenaline was wearing off, but he then he glanced at Ian, who was grinning so wide it looked like his face would crack.

“You happy now?” Mickey asked, but he was smirking. It was weird, but for a hot second there, he felt almost…free.

A collective shrug seemed to go through the bar. At this point, there were literal hoards at the neighborhood’s figurative gates. Seemed like urgency had produced its own brand of tolerance.

Well, almost, Mickey reasoned, as he watched his father throw his head back with a roar. He charged through the crowd at Mickey, and he landed one good punch before his dad was whaling on him.

He’d forgotten what a big fuck Terry was, Mickey thought dazedly, as his dad threw punishing blow after blow. He struggled to fight back, but his dad pinned him down beneath meaty thighs. Maybe this is how I die, Mickey decided, his mind hazy. After all this zombie nonsense, maybe Terry kills me after all.

“I’ve been waiting to do this forever!” he heard Ian shout, and then Terry’s weight was lifted off of him.

He watched Ian head-butt his dad, before his Uncle Ronnie broke a chair over his back, and the whole thing looked ready to devolve into total anarchy before the crowd seemed to surge as one sentient being and separate the fight. As it turned out, it was only Terry and Mickey and Ian who were fighting. His Uncle Ronnie backed off as soon he pulled Ian off Terry. The crowd in the Alibi seemed, impatient, if anything.

“When you’re done with your fucking family feud over there, we’d love to talk more about this misdirection shit, if you got a minute,” Veronica shouted sarcastically. She had stayed seated during the commotion, since sudden movement was nearly impossible for her this late in her pregnancy.

Terry, still enraged, turned to snap at V, but that was the last straw for Kev, who had come over at this point and wrapped Terry in a bear hug, pinning his arms behind his head to frog-march him out of the bar and into the street.

“Take the domestic violence outside, like everyone else,” Kev said over Terry’s indignant yelling.

Mickey couldn’t help but follow him out, his head pounding, but his brothers pinned him against the wall outside the Alibi. Mickey struggled at first, but Colin leaned in and muttered, “Don’t engage, dude,” and Mickey was so surprised that he went still, for a minute.

Then Terry yelled: “Fucking faggot, get out of my house! Pole-smoking queer!”

And Mickey was off, giving in to the call of the rage blackout, struggling against his brothers to get at his dad. “Fuck you, don’t worry about it! I been staying at Ian’s since you been gone, bitch!” Colin and Iggy pinned him against the wall, Kev and Joey restraining Terry a few feet away, but Mickey couldn’t stop himself, loving the feeling of winding his dad up. “Guess what we been doing, Daddy? We been fucking!” Mickey yelled, thrusting against the side of the building. Terry howled, inarticulate with rage. “And I take it. He gives it to me good and hard and I fucking like it! I suck his dick, and I fucking love it!”

“Fuck you!” Terry screamed, struggling to get at Mickey. Mickey kicked out, trying to connect with the old man.

“Fuck you back, bitch!” Mickey finally shook himself out of Colin and Iggy’s grasp, charging at his dad while his brothers' attempts to form a human barrier. 

Mickey shoved them aside and pulled out his gun from the waistband of his jeans. He flicked the safety off and leveled it at Terry. The crowd went silent, Mickey’s brothers backing up. He could see Ian watching wide-eyed from the door of the bar as things spiraled. Even Terry stopped struggling, staring down the barrel of the gun aimed at his face.

“Get the fuck out of this neighborhood, asshole,” Mickey said, his voice going low and quiet. “I swear to god, I see your ass on this side of the barricades come morning and I’ll shoot you in the fucking forehead.”

“Fucking think you can tell me what—” Terry spat, but Mickey cut him off, taking a step closer, gun still raised.

“Come on, give me a reason, old man, just give me one reason, I’m begging you.” Mickey kept the gun trained on Terry, and for a second he was convinced he was going to shoot. He felt capable of anything.

But then Terry took a step back. “Fucking faggot,” he spat, pushing away violently from Kev’s grip. He began to limp away from the Alibi.

“Take your fucking whores with you,” Mickey added, gesturing at the women assembled wearing crop tops and pleather skirts, who were nervously watching the proceedings from the side. 

“We not go with him,” one of the women said. She stepped forward. She had dark hair and sharp features, like a terrier. 

“You’re not fucking staying here, bitch,” Mickey said. 

“But we not go with him either.” Her voice was firm. She didn’t seem scared of the gun in Mickey’s hand. She didn’t seem scared at all. He was a little afraid of her, though. Those eyes had seen some shit, he could tell.

“Svetlana! Get your commie ass over here!” Terry called out from up the block. Mickey looked back at the Russian who seemed to be the leader of the rest of the women.

“Your call, I guess,” Mickey said. He yelled up at his father, “Looks like you’re all alone, asshole! Tell all those zombies on the other side I say what’s up!”

Terry made an indeterminate sound of pure fury, and Mickey actually threw his head back and laughed. The crowd outside the Alibi began to mill about, the immediate danger gone. Mickey was still laughing, the sound more wild then anything, as Ian came up to him. He caught Ian’s eye, the laughter subsiding weakly. He let Ian put a hand on his shoulder, and he leaned against it gratefully, slowly calming down.

In the odd way mundane concerns have of reasserting themselves in the wake of chaos, the meeting reconvened after a brief intermission. The threat of the evolving zombies was still at the forefront of everyone’s mind.

The meeting broke up after another half-hour, people heading out to patrol or go home. Mickey gave the Russian women who had abandoned his dad permission to stay until the end of the week, but they had to get out after that. The leader, Svetlana, had nodded gratefully at Mickey before disappearing with the rest of the women, and just like that Mickey and Ian were the only ones left in the Alibi besides Kev, who was stacking chairs. 

Mickey looked up from the notes he had taken to find Ian watching him. The concern on the redhead's face was so clear it almost made Mickey blush. Even when he wasn’t fucking blurting out how he felt all the damn time, Gallagher was so easy to read he might as well be saying it out loud. Mickey grinned ruefully.

“You go ahead without me, man, I’ll head back soon,” he said.

Ian kneaded the back of Mickey’s neck in a brief, rough gesture and pulled back quickly. He still seemed skittish, and Mickey knew that was his fault. “Don’t be too late,” Ian said and was about to turn to leave, like nothing had changed, like Mickey hadn’t just turned their entire reality on his head, and Mickey was a little irritated.

“Oh, for the love of—” Mickey bit out, standing quickly and grabbing Ian’s wrists, spinning him around and pressing his lips hard against Ian’s. His lip was split and he could feel the cut throbbing as he kissed Ian, but he barely noticed. Ian tasted so good in that moment, he felt so good, Mickey could only wrap his arms around his neck and pull him in as close as possible.

Ian made a sound in the back of his throat and kissed him back. He squeezed Mickey’s hips, his fingertips digging into his skin until they burned and Mickey loved the feeling. They probably would have made out indefinitely right there in the middle of the Alibi, if Kev hadn’t coughed pointedly a few times.

“Three cheers for true love and all, but come on guys,” he said. “I’m right here.”

Mickey pulled away with a slight gasp. He saw blood smeared on the corner of Ian’s mouth from his own split lip, which was bleeding pretty freely now.

“Got some blood on you,” Mickey said, reaching out to wipe it off Ian. Ian surprised him, dipping his head to suck Mickey’s thumb into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the digit and sending Mickey’s cock to semi-full attention in an instant.

Kev coughed again. “Seriously, take pity on an old man.”

Ian released Mickey’s thumb with a pop and laughed, stepping back. His skin was flushed. “Now you seriously have to hurry coming home,” he said.

Mickey grinned back. “I will, I promise. Now go,” he said, pushing playfully at Ian’s chest. Ian winked at him and left the Alibi. 

Mickey sat back down, still smiling to himself, and tried to regain his train of thought. He looked through his notes, going over strategies they’d discussed during the meeting, and after a bit his smile dropped and he was focused again, going through all the requirements for their new misdirection strategy point by point effectively turning his mood grim. Kevin left before he did, and Mickey barely noticed, registering that regardless of what he’d told Ian, he still had a lot of work to do tonight, as he pulled out the schedule for patrols and tried to re-work it to fit their new strategy.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he looked up sharply, not knowing what had startled him. The air felt different, thicker. He shot out of his chair and was out of the Alibi in seconds, pausing on the street. The moon was full and rose high above him as he strained for the telltale signs of approaching zombies at the nearest barricade, but he didn’t hear any. Instead, he heard shouts and screams, and a steadily increasing roar, interrupted intermittently by deafening pops. 

Without a thought he began running in the direction of the noise, palming a gun from his pocket as he went.

He was halfway across the neighborhood before he realized where he was heading. He was at the corner of the street when he finally saw the flames. The Gallagher house was an inferno.

People were darting across the lawn, yelling and screaming, a larger group gathered nearer to the street watching the proceedings more helplessly. Mickey barely saw Kev loping across the lawn, going to restrain Veronica who was yelling and trying to run into the Gallagher house herself.

“Kev, what the fuck?” Mickey screamed. “Who’s inside?”

“Everyone,” Kev said, his voice grim. “Only Lip was on patrol.”

Mickey was on his way to the porch before Kev finished the sentence. Out of the corner of his eye, like a nightmarish apparition, he thought he saw his dad being wrestled to the grass by his three brothers, Terry shrieking like a banshee and Colin, Iggy and Joey struggling to subdue him, but Mickey barely blinked, focused on the house.

He kicked open the front door, smoke and heat billowing out with a whoosh. Mickey started hacking and coughing, pulling off his shirt to wrap around his face. Inside, the smoke was so thick he could barely see.

“Mickey!” It was Fiona. She was crouched near the kitchen door, searching desperately under the table and couch. “Mickey, I can’t find Liam!” She was shrieking Liam’s name, searching desperately around the room.

“I’ll look upstairs, go outside!” Mickey said, grabbing her up and shoving her toward the door. He didn’t think she was going to do what he said, but he didn’t have time to think about it. 

The stairs were smoldering, and Mickey could only hope they held his weight as he took them two at a time, clinging to the railing to avoid the flames licking up the walls. Upstairs, the smoke was thicker.

“Ian!” he shrieked, his voice broken and terrified. “Ian!”

Before he could make it to the end of the hall, where he could see the door to Lip’s old bedroom that Mickey and Ian had commandeered weeks ago closed shut, he heard Debbie screaming from her room. 

Mickey pushed open the door to his left with a shove from his shoulder, stumbling into a smoke-filled room that was so hot his skin felt like it was sizzling. 

Debbie was on the floor, clutching her left leg, which Mickey could see was badly burned. Carl was beside her, desperately yanking at her arms to get her out of the room.

“Take your sister outside,” Mickey told Carl, somewhat uselessly, since Carl was obviously struggling to do just that. Carl looked up at him, his eyes bleak, before looping an arm around Debbie’s side, re-attempting to drag her up and downstairs.

Torn, Mickey made a split-second decision. He knelt and swept Debbie up in his arms, guiding Carl out of the room in front of him. The three of them staggered downstairs, the stairwell noticeably unstable. Fiona was at the bottom, tears streaming.

“Liam? Ian?” she called.

“Not yet,” Mickey yelled back, moving as quickly as he could. “Come on Carl, move your ass!”

He kicked open the screen door, ushering Carl and Fiona in front of him. On the lawn, he dumped Debbie roughly onto the ground and spun around to head back inside.

“Mickey!” Lip was at his side, his voice frantic. “What the fuck? Where’s Liam? Where’s Ian?”

“Inside I think,” Mickey shouted over his shoulder as he ran up the porch again. He knew Lip was following him in.

Inside, Mickey could only make out rough shapes of the furniture in front of him, the smoke filling the air like slime. The stairway in front of him was nothing but flames at this point. Putting his head down, he made his way to the kitchen. The back stairs were smoke-filled but Mickey didn’t immediately see flames. Behind him he heard Lip’s labored breaths as he followed him up the stairs. 

Mickey burst into the room at the end of the hallway, his and Ian’s room, and looked around wildly, hacking to clear his throat of the smoke. He didn’t see Ian. He heard Lip yelling from the room he shared with Carl and Liam.

“Liam!” There was the sound of furniture being shoved around. “Liam buddy, where you at?!”

Mickey pushed past the smoke into the hallway, going to join Lip. The fire was eating its way up the hallway at this point, curling up the walls until it had engulfed the ceiling. The house was going down soon, Mickey could feel it.

“I can’t find Liam!” Lip screamed at Mickey, but Mickey had already dived to the floor, throwing his arm blindly under the bunk bed. By his third wide swipe with his arm, he was ready to give up, when he suddenly felt something soft. His hands clenched like talons and he yanked, pulling the baby out from under the bed.

Lip grabbed Liam and held him to his chest, and Mickey could hear him coughing so loud it sounded like sobbing. Lip pulled his shirt over his head and used it to cover Liam’s face. The baby was making choking sounds, his face pale.

Mickey’s head spun, looking desperately for red hair, freckled skin, anywhere, when he felt Lip pulling at his elbow.

“Mickey, we have to leave,” Lip said

“But Ian—”

“Now, Mickey!” 

Mickey fought him, kicking as Lip pulled him out of the room, but he broke away when the heat from the hallway hit him in the face like a punch. The hallway was on fire. Lip crashed down the stairs, the wood buckling, and Mickey paused for one last second, the heat searing his eyes, anguished eyes searching for any sign of Ian, before giving in and clattering down the stairs after Lip.

They went out the back through the kitchen, passing the door to the basement where the last of the squirrel stash must be going up in flames. The night air was so clear after the smoke of the house that Mickey’s eyes were immediately tearing.

Ian was still inside, Mickey realized dully. Ian was burning alive. He turned to throw himself back up the stairs to the house, screaming Ian’s name, but Lip pulled him back with a surge of superhuman strength.

“Mickey,” he said brokenly. He was crying now, Liam coughing pitifully into his shoulder. “Mickey, you can’t go back.”

Slowly, Lip dragged Mickey around to the front of the house, skirting the fence and struggling to contain the shorter boy, who was fighting with a desperation only eclipsed by Lip’s desperation to keep him from going back inside.

Finally Lip deposited Mickey onto the front lawn, the gathering crowd stepping back to give room. Mickey crumpled to the ground, watching the roof of the Gallagher house fall, the entire structure slowly collapsing from some central point in the middle.

“Ian,” Mickey said, his voice destroyed from smoke and anguish. His face was wet, he knew he must be crying, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything. His lips and face and arms were numb. He didn’t think he’d be able to feel anything ever again.

Behind him, he heard Fiona yell out when she saw Lip holding Liam, and Lip went to join his siblings, crying loudly and gathering Carl and an injured Debbie into his arms. The entire Gallagher clan was holding each other, their grip on each other so tight they were like one living thing.

Ian was gone. The words echoed through Mickey’s head. Ian was gone. Ian had survived his nightmare parents, Terry, a fucking zombie apocalypse, and now he was gone in a goddamn house fire. He was gone. Ian. He was just going to have to die too, Mickey thought dully. 

And that’s when he heard it.

“Mickey!” Ian’s voice rose above the din of people panicking and yelling to one another. “Mick!”

Mickey was up and running across the lawn. Ian’s tall, lanky figure was limping toward him, and when Mickey reached him he didn’t slow down, tackling him instead and bringing the younger boy down with him to the ground. 

Even once they hit the grass, Mickey still felt like he was falling, completely dizzy and lightheaded as he wrapped himself around Ian. His arms met at his back and he wrapped his legs around his waist, Ian squeezing him back, and the two boys rolled over one, twice, with the force of their embrace, coming to rest on their sides, with Ian on an elbow so he could attack Mickey’s lips. 

“They said you went back inside!” Ian said against Mickey’s mouth, his words accusing. Mickey couldn’t answer, more interested in tightening his grip on Ian, kissing every part of his face he could reach, his nose, mouth, cheek, eyebrow, jaw.

“Are you okay?” Mickey demanded, pulling back to look down at Ian’s leg, his jeans appearing charred and smoking. “Are you—” But Ian cut him off, kissing him roughly, his tongue stealing the words from Mickey’s mouth.

“You stupid fucking…how could…I hate you…I fucking hate you!” Ian gasped, holding Mickey’s head steady as he assaulted his mouth with his own.

“Yes,” Mickey could only mutter in between pressing his mouth to Ian’s. 

Ian pulled back to glare at Mickey, his eyes wet. “How could you go back inside?” He used his grip on the base of Mickey’s neck to shake the older boy. “Why would you be so stupid?”

“I thought that’s where you were,” Mickey explained weakly, panting and feeling completely boneless, before Ian was kissing him again so he didn’t have to worry about speaking. Mickey’s movements were rough, his teeth banging against Ian’s, and he noticed it was because he was shaking, but so was Ian. So was Ian, who was alive. Ian was alive and on top of him.

A body-wracking shudder went through Mickey’s body and he burrowed his face in Ian’s neck, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, but it was almost impossible. All he could do was hold Ian as tight as he could, breathe him in, his lungs burning from smoke and relief and the aftermath of total terror.

After a while, Mickey began to come back to himself. He pulled his face away from Ian’s neck as much as Ian would let him, his grip on Mickey still tight enough to warp bones, and saw the other Gallaghers standing over the two boys on the ground. Fiona and Debbie were weeping, Lip rubbing his eyes with one fist and holding Liam with his other arm, the little boy still wailing with anxiety. Carl was pressed to Lip’s side as tight as he could, watching Mickey and Ian holding each other.

Slowly, Ian let Mickey disentangle himself from the taller boy so they could both get to their feet. Mickey kept an arm wrapped around Ian though, even as Ian’s siblings were hugging him in relief. 

Mickey looked back at the house. Miraculously, the fire seemed to be contained to the Gallagher house. The flames still rose high into the night, but by some act of god there was no wind tonight. Otherwise the whole block would have been gone.

His ears still ringing, he became aware of the commotion off to his right. He turned, his tight grip on Ian making it so the taller boy pivoted slightly too, and saw his brothers grappling with his dad.

He almost thought he had hallucinated his dad earlier on his way into the burning house, like some kind of harbinger of doom.

Terry was snarling something but the words were muffled as Iggy wrestled to press his father’s head into the grass. Terry looked well and truly unhinged.

It was hard to make sense of what his dad was saying. Mickey’s head was still ringing, and people were shouting, and some sense of morbid curiosity made him lean closer so he could hear.

“Fucking think you can throw me out of my own house, my own goddamn neighborhood, fucking pole-smoking faggot, I’ll burn you all to the ground, you fucking fucks,” Terry was biting out. He looked up to see Mickey staring at him and cackled, actually cackled, like a maniacal comic book villain.

For a long time afterward, Mickey would be ashamed of how long it took him to put the pieces together. “Wait, did you…you did this?”

Terry spat on the ground, struggling against the pressure of Iggy’s knee at his back. “Goddamn right I did, and I’d fucking do it again, fucking queers need—”

Mickey cut him off. “You did this?” he asked again, his voice low in near-wonder. “There were…there were kids in there. Their whole family was in there. Ian was in there,” he said, mostly to himself. The feel of Ian pressed to his side felt like a brand.

His father was still spewing furious, defiant words but Mickey didn’t hear him. It felt like the whole world was ringing now. 

Vaguely, he heard voices around him rising in volume, but he ignored them. He set Ian gently to his side and pushed his brothers back from where they held his father down. They stepped away, giving the old man time to rise on to his knees, his back to Mickey as he pulled himself up off the ground to his knees.

Mickey almost shivered as calm settled over his body. 

In one smooth movement, Mickey pulled his gun out of the back of his waistband, unlocking the safety as he brought the weapon up and over his head to aim, and fired once, cleanly, into the back of his father’s head, executing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our long collective Terry-shaped nightmare is over. Phew. And guess what- we'll actually see some real zombies soon! Imagine, zombies, in a zombie au! As always, thanks for reading and commenting, you dudes are the best. <3


	9. Chapter 9

Ian could remember when he was six years old and an older boy had shoved him down on the broken-down playground near his house. Ian had wanted to use the only swing that wasn’t broken, but the older boy knocked him down so Ian’s head hit the side of the metal swing set. 

Blood had dripped into his eyes, and all he remembered was his surroundings going dim as he got up, looked the other boy in the eye, and tried to tear him apart, screaming and scratching and clawing and kicking and punching until Fiona had come running, pulling Ian back even as he struggled to get at his tormentor, who was now lying on the wood chips crying and bleeding all over himself. 

When Ian had come back to himself, he remembered seeing the scared look on Fiona and Lip's faces, like he was an animal. It made Ian feel afraid of himself, afraid of how much he’d hurt the other boy, and ashamed that he’d made his own siblings scared of him. 

Ever since then he’d hated the feeling of anger, because he associated it with the feeling of being out of control. 

But nearly eleven years later, he was alone in bed and so angry that he felt his world once again begin to dim, fury making his skin itch and it impossible for him to close his eyes and sleep. 

In his mind’s eye, he was re-watching the night before, as Terry’s body fall forward and hit the cement of the sidewalk with a smack, over and over again. He was watching Mickey drop the gun, the weapon clattering loudly to the pavement, staring at his dad sprawled on the ground. He was watching the people gathered in front of his burning house stare in shock as a pool of blood blossomed around Terry’s ruined head. 

People were screaming. Behind Mickey, whose face was white, Joey fell to his knees and Iggy and Colin were yelling. His uncles were shoving their way through the crowd toward Mickey, screaming threats and curses. 

Without consciously deciding to move, Ian was shoving his way through the shifting crowd of people to Mickey, but Lip beat him to it. Lip moved so he was standing slightly in front of Mickey, pulling out his own gun and holding it loosely at his side. There was an unpleasant scent in the air that mixed with the smoke and made Ian’s noise burn. 

He didn’t know it yet, but that scent was the loyalty of the neighborhood beginning to shift. 

Pushing past Mickey’s Uncle Ronnie, Ian reached Mickey and grabbed his elbow. “Mickey,” he said softly. Mickey jerked and looked up, like he was surprised to see Ian, like he was surprised to see anyone around him. 

“The squirrel stash is gone,” Mickey said. His voice was so torn from the smoke he sounded like a different person. 

“Yeah, I know,” Ian said, squeezing Mickey’s arm, trying to comfort him, but how do you comfort someone after they put their own father down like a rabid dog? What do you say? 

“Wait, what did he say?” It was Tommy, the old Alibi barfly, who overheard Mickey. “Did he just say the stash was gone?”

“The supply stash?”

“What do you mean, it’s gone?” 

“It was inside? It was fucking inside that house?”

Panicked voices were rising as the gravity of the situation swept over the crowd. Ian wrapped an arm securely around Mickey’s shoulders, whose skin felt cool to the touch and was shaking against Ian, to look at the people around him incredulously.

Nobody cared that his entire family nearly burned to death. In fact, he was just now appreciating that only Mickey and Lip had gone in to try and save anybody. All these other assholes had stayed on the lawn.

People were jostling for position, circling Mickey and Ian and Lip like they were the nucleus of an increasingly volatile huddle. 

“I thought all the shit was at the Alibi,” someone said.

“It was at the Alibi,” someone else confirmed. “When did it get moved?”

“We moved it this morning, to hide it from that fucking maniac who just tried to incinerate my family,” Ian bit out, but no one seemed to hear him, the discussion careening off the rails.

“You fucking moved all our food and supplies to this house just to let it get burned to the ground?” This last angry demand came from Tommy again.

“So how much did we lose?” an old woman named Betty or Bonnie, Ian could never remember, asked tremulously.

It was Mickey who spoke up, surprising Ian a little. “It’s all gone,” he said.

“So there’s nothing left?” Kate, a bartender from the Alibi, asked.

“It’s all gone,” Mickey said. He sounded stunned himself.

A burly man Ian recognized as a regular from the Kash N Grab snorted. “You can't've been stupid enough to put it all in one place? There has to be some left.”

“I don’t know how else Mick can say that we lost everything,” Lip cut in irritably. “Tell me what to say to help you understand. All of our supplies were in the basement. That basement is nothing but ash now.”

Ian clenched his jaw. He’d been in that basement. He’d been down there re-checking the supplies they’d moved while he waited for Mickey to come home. He’d heard someone upstairs lumbering around the kitchen, but when he’d gone to check he’d found the door stuck like someone had shoved furniture in front of it. The smoke had billowed underneath quickly, and he kicked and kicked to escape. It was only when the door caught fire that he was able to shove his way through the weakened wood, beating at his jeans as they caught fire and roasted the skin underneath. 

And while he and everyone he loved had been close to burning alive, all of these asshole had been on the front lawn with their thumbs up their asses.

He barely noticed Colin and Joey begin to howl accusations, screaming, “You fucking shot him, you fucking shot Dad!” into the night sky over and over. As he stood listening to the neighborhood slowly turning on Mickey, his own leg throbbing and burnt, Ian first felt the familiar but long-absent haze of total fury begin to creep over his brain.

The crowd was pressing in on Mickey even as Ian and Lip tried to shield him. The angry voices clashed on top of one another, but Ian heard the collective betrayal being slung Mickey’s way beneath the words: We trusted you, we put our faith in you to protect us and you failed. You lost everything and you shot your own father, who can trust a person like that?

Ian wanted to beat all of them to death like he’d nearly beaten that kid when he was six. 

“We’ll go find more supplies,” Mickey said, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd. “I’ll go find more supplies. I’ll fix this.”

You don’t owe these assholes anything, Ian wanted to say, but at that moment Kev stepped in and threw his hands up. “Everyone calm down!”

“Fucking tell me to calm down, my brother’s dead on the sidewalk, by his own goddamn son,” Mickey’s Uncle Ronnie bellowed, jabbing Kev’s chest with his thumb. 

“And your dead brother tried to burn down a house full of kids,” Kev told him coldly. The words seemed to reverberate through the crowd, and although not all the heated voices died down, most of them did. 

“We need a group to get the water from behind the Alibi and put out this fire, if we can,” Veronica called out from the back of the crowd, who didn’t seem too eager to disperse. “The wind could pick up any second and light the rest of this block up.” At that, a section of the crowd began to shift, heading in the direction of the bar. 

He looked down at Mickey beside him, who was looking at the faces around him a little helplessly, uncertain. He didn’t look like himself. Ian wanted to wrap him up and take him away, while simultaneously murdering everyone who made him look that way.

“Come on, let’s go to your place,” Ian said softly. He nudged Mickey to get him going, turning his back on the people who were suddenly rushing to put out the fire at his house now that it might actually threaten their houses or lives. 

Lip followed, walking backward for a bit so he could keep an eye on Colin and Joey, who were watching Mickey walk away like hyenas. Strangely, Iggy stood back, away from his brothers.

At the Milkovich house, which smelled like booze and what Ian had to guess was Russian perfume, Micky had let Ian have a look at his face. There were still bruises and deep scrapes from the fight with his dad before the fire, an event which felt like light years ago. He didn’t even snap at Ian for hovering when Ian pushed him to sit on the edge of the bathtub so he could finish cleaning and bandaging the wounds. After, he made Mickey lean his head back so Ian could gently wash his hair to get the dried blood out, carefully pouring a cup of water to rinse it. Ian chattered lightly the whole time, nonsense words like, “Sorry, sorry, I know this hurts,” and “One more Band-Aid here buddy, almost done,” and “Lean your head back, just like that,” words just to fill the silence. Mickey didn’t say anything.

Lip waited in the kitchen. He was smoking when Ian left Mickey to change in his room.

“Is that a cigarette?” Ian asked disbelievingly. They’d run out of cigarettes within a week, everyone chain smoking out of stress and anxiety before being forced to quit as a tense, shaky unit once they ran out. It had a been a rough few days after that.

“Been saving it,” Lip said, taking a long drag. He held it out to Ian, who gratefully took a long, cleansing inhale.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he said. They were silent for a while, smoking the cigarette to the filter.

“I can’t believe they turned on him like that,” Ian finally said. 

Lip just shrugged. “What, you mean the neighborhood? That’s politics for you,” he said, a little breezily.

Ian was ready to rant, his anger at everyone bubbling, but Mickey appeared in the doorway. He bit his lip. “I’m going to the east barricade to patrol,” Mickey said.

“What? No, you can’t—” Ian burst out, moving toward him, but Mickey held up a hand.

“Ian, don’t,” he said. “I just, I need to go do this right now, okay?” He seemed pretty desperate, and as much as Ian hated it, he couldn’t physically restrain the other boy.

“I’ll go with,” Lip said, getting up to join Mickey as he walked out the door.

“Me too,” Ian said, but Mickey stopped him.

“No, man. You get some sleep,” Mickey said. “Rest that leg.”

Ian stepped back, unable to read Mickey’s mood. “Okay.” Mickey smiled at him weakly, and then he left with Lip.

And now Ian was alone in Mickey’s bed, in Mickey's cluttered room, thinking over and over the events of the past six hours, and getting more and more worked up.

Just as the sun began to rise, Mickey came home. Ian didn’t pretend to be asleep as the other boy entered the room, but he didn’t speak either. He just watched Mickey undress slowly and lay down on the bed, curling in on himself. Even through the vibrating anger in his chest, Ian worried about him. He scooted closer and wrapped an arm around Mickey, interlocking their fingers and pressing his nose to the back of his neck. Mickey hugged Ian’s arm around his stomach tightly, but didn’t say anything either.

At some point, Ian finally drifted off. When he woke up, he was alone in bed and immediately sprang up in panic. He rushed into the kitchen.

“I’m just saying, maybe we should hold a meeting, ask the neighborhood for volunteers,” Lip was saying. He and Mickey both looked up as Ian skidded to a halt in the doorway. The two other boys were seated around the kitchen table. 

“Shit,” Ian muttered, his panic easing. He nodded at Mickey, feeling a little lame. “Hey.” Mickey didn’t answer, but he pulled out the chair beside him. Ian slid into it and pressed his leg against Mickey’s under the table.

“I’m just saying man, last night was fucked up,” Lip resumed. “You should chill for a bit.”

“No I fucking shouldn't, we don’t have any food. I found one can of tomato soup in this whole house. They used most of the water to put out the fire last night. The Kash N Grab is totally empty.” It was weird to hear Mickey speaking after his determined muteness the night before. He was focusing on Lip, though. “People are going to start to panic if we don’t find more supplies.”

Ian couldn’t help but think, why was that Mickey’s problem? Why was the entire neighborhood his problem? Maybe it was time to cut everybody loose. Ian felt like an asshole as soon as the thought crossed his mind, but it wouldn’t retreat.

“Alright, fine. We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” Lip relented.

“Where are you going?” Ian finally asked.

“Remember Iggy’s stupid fucking plan to run patrols outside the barricade?” Mickey asked, studying his hands splayed out on the table. “Looks like even a broken clock’s right twice a day.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ian said promptly. 

Mickey shook his head and stood up. “No you’re not.” Before Ian had a chance to respond, Mickey looked to Lip. “I’ll go find Iggy.” 

“Sure thing, El Capitan,” Lip said with a salute, but it was friendly this time. Somewhere over the last 24 hours, Lip and Mickey seemed to have formed a sort of begrudging alliance.

Ian stood up, ready to follow Mickey out, but there was a tentative knock at the front door. “Anyone home?” It was Fiona, flanked by Debbie and Carl, with Liam in her arms. 

Mickey passed them on his way out the door. “Hi Fiona, bye Fiona,” he said, allowing Fiona to briefly reach out and squeeze his shoulder as he walked by.

“What the hell is going on, Lip?” Ian demanded, turning to his brother, who only shook his head grimly.

“Bring it up with your boyfriend, dude. I’m not a part of this.” 

Ian stomped into Mickey’s room to pull on a shirt and pants, since he’d been sitting in the kitchen in his boxers. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth without water, since the water in the pipes wasn’t exactly clean anymore. He glanced and saw Fiona and the kids standing in the bathroom doorway, grim and silent like ghosts, and jumped, startled.

“Jesus, Fiona,” he gasped.

“Why don’t you take it easy on him for a little?” Fiona’s voice was tentative. She was clearly referring to Mickey, and the patrol for supplies. Lip must have filled her in, which was more than anyone was doing for him, Ian thought sourly.

She clutched Liam to her chest and held Debbie tight to her side. Carl was pressed on her other side. He was still mute, but at least he was sticking to Fiona, which relieved Ian. He liked when Carl behaved more like the kid he was than a dead-eyed shark.

“I am taking it easy on him, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ian said. He reached to put the palm of his hand on Carl’s head. “How are you doing, big guy? How’s the cough?”

Carl shrugged. Veronica had looked all the Gallaghers over after the fire and declared Carl’s lungs the worst of the lot, and while she'd patched up Debbie's burn as best she could, her medicine stockpile was dwindling and she had nothing for smoke inhalation. 

“Last night was rough on Mickey,” Fiona continued. “Maybe if he wants you to stay back on this, you should let him have that.”

“Why are you taking his side on this?” Ian demanded. “I’m the best with a gun after him, why would I stay behind?”

“It can be hard, knowing you can’t protect the people you love,” Fiona said quietly. It took a minute for Ian to realize she wasn’t just talking about the kids under her protection.

It was easy to forget that Fiona had lost someone too. Steve had left weeks ago, and no one had any idea where he went. He’d just disappeared, lost to the zombie hoards like Mandy and Monica and probably Frank, although those last two left Ian feeling curiously blank. 

“Mickey lost a lot last night,” Fiona said.

Ian sighed. “I know how fucked up it was that he had to shoot Terry.”

“I don’t mean Terry. You didn’t see him, Ian, when he was out on the lawn and he thought you were inside.” Liam began to fuss a little and she rocked him slowly, Debbie swaying with the movement as well. “It can be hard to get over something like that. You lose your peace of mind.”

“Peace of mind? Fiona, there are zombies everywhere. That’s kind of overstating a house fire, don’t you think?” Ian said, even though he knew he was being willfully obtuse.

“Maybe,” Fiona said with a sigh. Her eyes welled up a little. “Maybe I’m just talking about myself really. I really thought we lost you last night, Ian.” Her voice broke and she looked down, swallowing a sob.

“Fi…” Ian felt his own eyes fill in sympathy. He pulled Fiona to him and she leaned in, until Debbie and Carl were against him too. He held his siblings for a while, feeling the comfort in being close to them. 

After a few minutes, Fiona pulled back, sniffing and pulling herself together. “Maybe I don’t want you going either, or Lip. Maybe I want my crazy family to stay with me.” She smiled, trying to joke, but Ian could tell she was mostly serious.

“We need food, Fiona. We have to leave the neighborhood to find it.”

She frowned, nodding. “I know,” she insisted. She kept the smile on her face, but now it looked wistful. “I like to pretend I’m still in control sometimes, I guess. Man, those were the days.”

It hurt to see Fiona like this, so vulnerable and exposed, so Ian looked away. Eventually Fiona brought the kids to the living room and Ian was alone. He heard Lip and the rest of siblings talking quietly, but he couldn’t be around them. He stayed in Mickey’s room stewing instead, obsessively replaying the scene from the night before in his head.

Mickey came back with Iggy late in the afternoon as the sky darkened for a summer storm. 

He went into the kitchen when he heard Lip and Mickey start to yell at each other, Iggy rummaging through the weapon cabinet behind them.

“Why would three humans need six AR-15s?” Lip was demanding. 

“Okay wiseass, but what if those humans accidentally jam their guns?” Mickey said hotly.

“Well then, why stop at eight? Why not bring ten assault rifles? Why not play it safe and go with a baker’s dozen?” Lip said, crossing his arms.

Ian grabbed a free chair at the kitchen table to better enjoy the show. “That is a lot of guns, Mick,” he chimed in. Mickey shot him a glare.

“We need to be prepared,” Mickey insisted.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter you guys, because I can only find five right now,” Iggy said, his head in the gun cabinet.

“Jesus, we just went on a run to Indiana last month, how can we have lost guns?” Mickey demanded.

Lip threw his hands up. “Whatever! Let’s put a pin in the weapons discussion, we need to plan out our route.”

Ian watched his brother and boyfriend heatedly walk through all the details for their supply mission that would leave at dawn the next morning. They went over the list of people who would be going—Mickey, Lip, Iggy—and Ian’s name wasn’t mentioned. Fiona’s words echoing in his head, Ian swallowed his words and waited. 

He waited while Mickey and Lip eventually compromised on five AR-15s and two AK-47s, because the AKs had shoulder straps and were easier to carry as backup. He waited until Mickey and his brother were done counting and organizing the weapons. 

He waited til Lip and Fiona settled Debs, Carl and Liam in the living room.

He waited, barely, until Mickey closed his bedroom door, leaving him and Ian alone together for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, and then he finally struck.

“I’m coming with you tomorrow,” he said.

Mickey kicked off his jeans and sat on the bed in his boxers. “No, you’re not.”

Ian wanted to shake him, settling for shoving the older boy down and pinning his arms above his head. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He tried to make Mickey meet his eyes, but he stared pointedly to the side. “Mick, talk to me. You’re freaking me out.”

“I don’t want you there.” Mickey finally locked his eyes with Ian’s. 

Ian almost felt the words hit his chest. He released Mickey’s wrists and sat up. “You don’t?”

“Nope. You’ll slow us down, with your leg and everything,” Mickey said evenly, nodding in the direction of Ian’s burn.

Ian scoffed. “My leg is fucking fine. And if we’re going to look for food for our family, I’m coming with.”

Mickey shook his head. “It’s not just for you and me and our brothers and your sisters, though. We have to go look for supplies for the neighborhood.”

“No we fucking don’t, you owe them dick,” Ian said heatedly. “Fuck those guys. Fuck all of them. They don’t give a shit about you, Mickey." Not any further than Mickey was able to care for them so they didn’t have to take care of themselves, he added viciously, but to himself.

“Who said they did?” Mickey asked, seeming honestly perplexed. “But I was the one who promised in the beginning if they donated their food and supplies, we’d use it for the neighborhood. And now it’s gone and it’s my fault and I need to fix it.”

“It wasn’t your fault!” Ian yelled, officially losing his temper. “How can you fucking say that? It was your fucking dad!”

“But I moved the squirrel stash,” Mickey tried to insist, but Ian wasn’t having it.

“We all decided and agreed on that.”

“Whatever, I’m going by my fucking self tomorrow anyway, so don't worry about it,” Mickey snapped. “Everything’s not always about your ass.”

“Oh, I’m fucking going tomorrow.”

“Don’t make me pull rank, asshole,” Mickey said, standing so his chest was inches from Ian’s. He looked angry, but not nearly as angry as Ian felt and definitely more desperate. “You’re staying here. End of.”

“Is that what’s going on now? You just get off on being in charge? Is that why you’re so fucking heartbroken that you’re not the neighborhood’s special little leader anymore?” The words were coming out of Ian’s mouth like venom and he couldn’t stop the flow.

In a distant corner of his brain, he knew he was being unfair, and not just unfair but cruel, which in his right head was the last thing he wanted to be to Mickey in any situation, but least of all right after Mickey had been forced to put a bullet through his own family member’s head. But he barely heard the distant, humane corner of his brain right now.

“Ian, what’s the matter with you?” Mickey actually paused to ask, staring at Ian as he panted with anger, his face most likely as red as hair. Ian didn’t think Mickey had ever seen him truly angry before. Few people had. He knew most people depended on him to be the calm, levelheaded one in a crisis, but he felt hazy and unstable as a grenade about to go off.

“Fuck you, this is bullshit,” he spat out. 

“Fuck you back, everything isn’t about you, bitch,” Mickey shouted, giving Ian a shove.

Ian shoved him back. “Oh like hell, you get hard just thinking about bossing me around.”

Mickey pushed Ian until his back crashed against the bedroom door. Ian grabbed hold of Mickey’s shoulders, shaking him hard.

“If you’re leaving, I’m going with you. That’s just the way it fucking is, so get used to it," Ian said, wrapping a hand around Mickey’s neck to bring his face closer to him, Mickey resisting the pressure nominally. “You’re stuck with me, asshole.”

Mickey’s eyes were still flashing, but Ian could feel him growing hard against him and in a split second the tension shifted and Mickey was slamming into Ian with a violent kiss. Ian stumbled forward so that Mickey crashed back onto the bed, Ian kneeling over him, their mouths still pressed together. 

Mickey wiggled to pull off his boxers and clawed at Ian’s clothes until they were both naked, palming his cock and moaning when their unclothed pelvises collided and giving a fluid roll of his hips that made Ian’s mouth dry as Mickey muttered, “Fuck me, fuck me, please just fuck me right now,” into his ear.

Somehow, Ian pulled himself back from the edge of his frustration and lust, gasping for breath. “We don’t have any lube.” They’d used up most of the banana-flavored shit the other day and the extra bottle went down with the rest of the Gallagher house. 

Mickey rolled his eyes so theatrically Ian was sure his eyelids must be sore. “Sweet jesus, Firecrotch, would you just get on me?” Mickey tried squirming to align Ian’s cock with his hole, but Ian stayed stubbornly still, overpowering the smaller boy.

“God fucking damnit,” Mickey said, slumping in defeat, their fight temporarily forgotten as they gave into a more familiar squabble. 

Even feeling this out of control, Ian hated fucking Mickey without lube, and he didn’t care how many times Mick called him gay or insisted that it wasn’t that bad after he got used to it, Ian just couldn’t get into going raw. He could see the wheels turning behind Mickey’s eyes, though, and tried to distract him. “Just let me suck you off,” Ian offered. 

“Sure,” Mickey said, a little too easily, Ian thought. He shifted so he wasn’t holding Mickey down with all his weight, and as soon as the pressure lifted Mickey made his move, flipping Ian over so Mickey could ride him.

Ian grabbed at his hips, trying to still him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not made of glass here, man, come on,” Mickey argued, but gave in when Ian opened his mouth to protest again. “Fucking fine, give me your hand.”

Ian felt his dick begin to throb almost painfully at the sight of Mickey drawing Ian’s fingers into his mouth, sucking until the first two digits were slick. Satisfied, he guided Ian’s hand down to ease the fingers inside himself.

Ian propped himself up on his elbow so he could watch Mickey’s face as he worked him open carefully, the older boy’s skin going flushed, splotches rising on his chest. He began moving with the rhythm of Ian’s fingers inside him, his mouth parting, reaching down to jerk himself off, and Ian thought he could watch him like this forever.

“Never thought I’d have to beg you to fuck me,” Mickey teased even as he threw his head back. Ian slipped a third finger in, making the other boy hiss a little. 

Ian froze. “You okay?”

Mickey growled a little. “I say you should stop?” He leaned forward and captured Ian’s mouth in a rough kiss, which was enough to make Ian lose focus. He licked inside Mickey’s mouth and felt him twitch as Ian’s fingers prodded at Mickey’s prostrate. Ian could feel his own hips start to thrust more strongly.

“Get in me,” Mickey whispered against Ian’s mouth. 

Ian wanted to go slow as he entered Mickey with care, savor the feeling of being inside, but their movements quickly spiraled out of his control, the pace punishing, the sound of their bodies slapping together loud in the dark room, and Ian didn’t want to come yet, he wanted Mickey to ride him for the rest of the night, but Mickey leaned so his entire body was pressed against Ian’s and the change in angle made Mickey keen softly into Ian’s voice, and that sound and the feel of Mickey on top of him was enough to make him come in sharp, almost painful pulses inside of the other boy. 

Mickey groaned, so loud they heard Lip pound twice against the door. “Hey, take it easy in there, the kids are trying to sleep,” Lip called out. But Ian jerked at Mickey’s cock to distract him, until he was coming hard across Ian’s chest.

It took a long time to catch their breath, and Ian was nearly dozing when he remembered to mutter, “I’m going with tomorrow,” still inside Mickey and hoping he could stay there for at least a little longer. He thought Mickey was asleep too, until the other boy spoke softly.

“Just, you have to be careful,” Mickey whispered. “You have to promise me.”

“I promise,” Ian said sleepily, tightening his grip around Mickey and passing the fuck out.

The morning arrived in a hurry. Ian was a little surprised that Mickey was still letting Ian come along in the light of day, but Mickey seemed resigned to it at this point. Fiona and the kids, along with Kev and V, walked the four boys to the northern barricade in silence, all tense and eager to see the group off before too many people from the neighborhood woke up. No one trusted the mood from last night to have evaporated already.

Fiona hugged all of them fiercely, even Iggy, and they said quick goodbyes. Theoretically, it shouldn’t take more than a day, maybe two, to head toward the center of the city, scout for supplies, and come back. Realistically, they all hugged goodbye like it was the last time they would see one another.

Ian followed Mickey, Iggy and Lip up the barricade to survey the five-way intersection. It seemed clear for now.

The plan was the head up Ashland until they hit the Stephenson Expressway and then veer east. Ideally, they wouldn’t have to actually go all the way the Loop. It had been agreed that their best shot for food and other supplies was up north, but that was a wild guess. Maybe the stores beyond the barricade would already be looted. 

“Be careful!” Ian heard Fiona call out. “Take care of each other.” He turned to wave down at her, trying to smile, and with no more fanfare, climbed down the other side, stepping free of the barricade for the first time in over a month.

Iggy and Mickey led the way, Ian bringing up the rear with Lip. Ian felt antsy, his old nail-studded baseball bat in one hand, his other hand gripping the handle of the assault rifle hanging from the strap around his neck. Every slight noise made him jerked. It was eerie how quiet the streets were, when just over a month ago they'd have been filled with traffic and people. Everyone else seemed on edge too, all collectively anticipating their first zombie.

They didn’t have to wait more than four blocks.

At W. 44th, they stopped to climb over a pile of abandoned cars that blocked the street, metal skeletons black and burned out, the whole structure stretching up at least twenty feet. Ian wondered what the hell had happened there.

He made it over first, when he saw movement dart out of the corner of his eye. Cocking his gun, he spun around to see three zombies watching them from the street corner twenty feet away. The creatures tilted their heads sharply, reminding Ian of birds. He’d never liked birds.

Ian trained his gun on them as Lip, Mickey and Iggy flanked him. 

“Why aren’t they moving?” Iggy whispered. Ian heard him tapping the barrel of his gun anxiously with his fingernail.

“I think they’re waiting for something,” Lip whispered. He almost sounded like he was marveling. 

Before Ian could open his mouth to ask, “For what,” he felt rather than saw a snarling zombie crash into his right side. The goddamn things had been distracting them, Ian realized dazedly, as he hit the ground hard enough for his vision to go black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dudes, wanted to let you know it might be a few days before the next update. Sorry to leave on a cliffhanger, but grad school responsibilities call unfortunately. I'll be sure to hurry up on the next chapter, in which (spoiler) an unexpected someone makes a surprise visit, and before you ask, it is indeed Zombie Frank Sinatra singing "Chicago" in a fedora. Thanks again for all your support! :)


	10. Chapter 10

Mickey watched Ian go down like a ton of bricks, a snarling zombie on top of him. “Get off of him!” he shouted, even though zombies pretty famously didn’t respond to English.

He rushed in Ian’s direction, in retrospect like a total idiot because it left his left side completely vulnerable. Having never played football, Mickey could only assume getting hit by a linebacker felt similar to being tackled by a leaping zombie.

“Shit! Fucking shit, arrgh,” he heard Lip yell, and then Iggy swearing and struggling with what sounded like multiple zombies, but only vaguely, as Mickey fought to kick his own off him.

His zombie was a teenage girl, and she was snapping her jaws at him like a wolf, her eyes milky and flat. She smelled like a gym sock soaked in old blood and left to dry in a hot car. 

Mickey managed to roll the zombie over, so he was holding her shoulders down. She was fucking strong, far stronger than she most likely was in life. He fumbled with the gun strapped around his neck but she swiped at his face and he needed both hands to hold her down. It was tough to get a grip—her wrists were torn and ripped, the tendons shining sickly.

“Mickey!” It was Ian screaming about ten feet away. Mickey’s eyes shot up, thinking Ian was calling for help, but instead he was fighting back a zombie and gesturing desperately with his chin in Mickey’s direction at the same time. 

Mickey moved his knee so he was pinning his zombie down. “What?” he yelled to Ian, not getting what Ian wanted. He would never win any awards at charades.

What felt like bowling balls knocked into his back and sent him flying, which freed him from his original zombie but left him covered by three more. They were children, maybe nine or ten years old in life, their faces now bruised like old fruit. One was missing an eye and went to bite his arm with a howl, Mickey yanking it away just in time.

Even with their freakish zombie strength, they were still kids and Mickey was able to kick them back far enough to yank his rifle from where it had twisted around his neck. He fired, bracing for the kick of the automatic weapon.

The child zombies nearly flew apart with the force of the bullets, but to Mickey’s horror two of the cleft bodies continued to crawl toward him even though their heads were split like melons.

“Jesus, fucking die!” Mickey yelled, continuing to fire until the zombies were completely ripped apart and lying still.

As he jumped to his feet, he heard gunfire and saw Iggy shooting at four zombies, Lip beating a fifth to pieces with the tire iron he’d tucked into his pants earlier. Mickey could see Lip’s AK-47 lying abandoned a few feet away, and if it was fucking jammed he swore to god he would never stop giving that idiot shit for it, but that was a passing fancy as his original teenage zombie came at him again.

Now that he had his gun in his hands, the tide of the fight began to turn, although it took a while to bring down his attacker. It was easier to focus when he saw Ian had been able to kick his zombie off and didn’t need Mickey’s immediate help, so he shifted instead to take down Iggy’s pack. 

Mickey finally took his finger off the trigger when the last zombie went still, hearing Iggy’s gun go silent too. Behind him, there was a series of dull thuds.

He turned to see Ian driving his fist into a zombie over and over, grunting with each hit. The zombie seemed to have long ago gone still, its head now concave.

“Ian. Ian!” Mickey said, trying to get the other boy’s attention, but he kept slamming his fist into the mushy pile where the zombie’s head used to be. “Gallagher, I think you got him.” Mickey crouched down and hauled him bodily away. 

“Easy there, psycho killer,” Mickey muttered, easing Ian back and feeling the way the other boy’s chest shuddered with loud pants. When Ian finally began to settle, Mickey grabbed at his hands, examining them closely. “Fuck, you didn’t break the skin, did you?”

Ian tried to pull his hands back from Mickey’s firm grip. “I’m fine, I didn’t get bit,” he said dully.

“But fluid exchange is probably a transmitter too, you dumb idiot,” Lip said, dropping to his knees to look at Ian’s hands too.

Once they were both satisfied Ian’s hands were uncut, although covered in zombie gore, Mickey set Ian away from him, shaking his head. “Did you just wallop a zombie to re-death with your bare fucking hands?”

Ian twitched uncomfortably and stood up. “I don’t know, I just couldn’t stop.” He glared at Mickey, who got to his feet also. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Mickey threw his hands up. “Sorry! Last thing I want to do is make you angry.” He sounded freaked out, even to his own ears, but he couldn’t calm his voice. “I bet I wouldn’t like you when you’re angry!”

It was usually fun to wind Ian up in the rare moments he got mad in the past, but in the sudden calm after the attack, Mickey felt queasy and off-kilter, looking into Ian’s eyes and not immediately recognizing what he saw. Ian looked down at the ground. Mickey had a weird taste in his mouth. He was about to try and figure out what the fuck was going on with this kid, but that was interrupted by Iggy.

“Yo! I think I see a Target up there!”

Without pausing to recover from their zombie battle, they stumbled as one man to grab their respective guns and blunt objects before immediately rushing toward the red bulls eye insignia that peeked from behind a bank. It was the first store they’d come across so far. 

Mickey felt his heart thumping, hoping desperately that this was all it would take, they’d find enough food and shit inside to bring back to the neighborhood in the space of a morning, and then come back with more people to take the rest of it to safety behind the barricades.

Of course that didn’t happen though. Even Mickey, who considered himself almost comically immune to bad situations getting worse after a lifetime of being poor and closeted in a fucked up family, was shocked at how empty the inside of the superstore was.

The lights were out but the high windows let in enough daylight to illuminate the bare shelves. Iggy went up ahead, gun cocked, jogging up and down to scour more closely, Lip running behind, but Mickey couldn’t bring himself to follow. Every aisle he could see was empty, not even a stray can of tuna or half-open bag of chips left behind. It was like locusts had descended.

For the first time since they’d set out, Mickey felt real panic begin to wind its way up his spine. 

“It’s empty,” he said, a little redundantly. Obviously the store was empty. His softly spoken words echoed in how empty it was. 

“Looks like it,” Ian said. He put his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “This is just the first store though. Next one’ll be better.”

Mickey barely heard him. “Why didn’t we look for food sooner,” he said, but mostly to himself. “Why the fuck did I think we could last on the Cash N Grab and the shit everybody already had? I’m a fucking idiot.”

“There wasn’t time to go out and get more,” Ian reminded him. “We had to block off the neighborhood, zombies were pouring in.” Mickey didn't even bother to respond.

Iggy and Lip were making their way back now. Lip caught Mickey’s eye and shook his head. Mickey blinked, his nose burning. Was he actually about to fucking cry, break down in the middle of an empty Target with his boyfriend’s hand on his shoulder? It seemed possible, he reflected miserably. Then Ian did something that made Mickey remember why he'd chosen this kid to stick out the apocalypse with. If Ian had tried to comfort him, wrapped him in a hug, Mickey knew he would've totally lost it. Instead, he gave Mickey a punch to the chest, not enough to hurt, but enough to shock him back to reality.

“Hey,” Ian said. His voice was firm. “Keep it together, we still got miles of city to explore.”

Mickey rubbed at his eyes tiredly with his sleeve. “What if all the other stores are empty too?”

“Then I guess we’re just going to have to go full cannibal,” Ian replied. “I vote we start with Iggy.” Iggy attempted to crack a smile, but failed halfway through, looking almost as troubled as Mickey.

“I’m serious,” Mickey said.

“Me too.” Ian ruffled Mickey’s hair in a way that was usually guaranteed to irritate the other boy, but now he could only bat at Ian’s hand weakly. While Lip and Iggy's faces mirrored his dejection, Ian on the other hand just looked determined. 

“Shake it off, you guys. Can’t win ‘em all.” He started walking backward toward the exit, urging the others on with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Let’s go, I think there’s a Dominicks like two blocks away.”

Without much of a choice, Mickey followed him out into the sun again.

“Man, that would’ve just been too fucking easy, huh?” Lip muttered beside him.

Mickey huffed in commiseration. He wiped his hands on his jeans, trying to clear them of zombie guts from earlier but only managing to smear it around. His hands were stained red. He hated the stuff, it somehow refused to wash off like normal blood and it smelled like literal dookie. Giving up, he walked beside Ian, his gun at the ready.

It was incredibly unnerving walking the empty streets. Weeds were already starting to grow in cracks on the asphalt. As they passed under an empty El station, Mickey wondered how it would look a year from now, if the metal tracks would rust and collapse under their own weight, if the weeds would overtake the street below and plunge all of Chicago into its own urban jungle. 

There was indeed a Dominicks a few blocks up, and it was also empty, save for two boxes of off-brand tomato sauce Lip found behind a cash register. There was a Walgreens, picked clean, and three corner stores, in the second of which they managed to find a few boxes of aspirin and a warm refrigerator full of expired milk. Who were the people who had taken it all, Mickey wondered, and where were they now? Had they holed up in their own neighborhoods? Was everyone dead or undead but them?

Mickey was almost choking on the desperate feeling that crept up his chest. He was hungry too, his stomach growling. It made him think of Debs and Carl and Liam, but also all the other kids in the neighborhood, who must be equally starving at this point.

They were practically empty-handed when they reached the expressway, the sight of the wide intersections full of abandoned cars jarring his senses. The ever-present smell of rot that now hung over the city was especially strong here. There must be bodies in the cars, Mickey reasoned.

The sun was making them all sweat bullets, so they took a short break in the shade of the off-ramp, all gasping and struggling to take only small sips of the water bottle Lip passed around. They were up almost immediately though, everyone reluctant to stay still for too long.

After a few hours their journey started to feel aimless. Mickey felt so dehydrated it was like he could feel the individual cells in his body start to shrivel.

They crossed the river and walked up Madison Street, past the train station that stood empty and silent like a tomb. They walked up to Michigan Avenue and stood at the corner, staring up and down what was usually one of the busiest streets in Chicago. The sun baked down on abandoned cars and piles of trash billowing around like tumbleweeds. Mickey spotted a trio of coyotes darting between vehicles, nipping at each other’s heels. 

The Bean reflected the sunlight harshly as they passed it, and Mickey saw bloody handprints sprinkled garishly across its smooth surface. On a whim, they started walking toward the lake, all equally thirsty and starting to feel delirious.

“Shit. Is that the Shedd?”

The aquarium was visible in the distance. Mickey squinted. The wide, circular windows that faced the lake and housed the dolphin enclosure were cracked open, like God himself had come down and smashed a massive fist through. 

“Remember when Mom took us there that one summer?” Iggy asked Mickey idly. Mickey didn’t remember, he’d been too little, but his older brothers talked about it so much that it had practically become Mickey’s memory too. They’d stayed all day and watched the dolphin show twice.

They stopped to fill up their water bottles in Buckingham Fountain, even though the water smelled fetid. It tasted like mold, but Mickey drank half a bottle and filled it up again.

After a lackluster conference, they decided to circle up north for at least another hour, and if they still found fuck all, they’d start heading back.

Mickey thought how weird it was they hadn't seen any humans besides themselves. He thought it was weirder they hadn't run into more zombies after the first attack. He couldn't decide which scenario made him feel more hollow with horror, being trapped with no escape in a city swarming with zombies, or coming to the realization that they were the last people on earth, living or reanimated.

They stayed on side streets, walking til their feet ached, and Mickey started to feel weird, like there was something in the corner of his vision he knew was there but couldn’t catch if he turned around.

“Do you,” he swallowed, feeling paranoid. “Do you feel like we’re being…” He trailed off, instead gesturing at the air around them.

“For the last hour or so, yeah,” Lip said without hesitation. He sounded unusually calm for someone who was admitting they were being followed.

Mickey saw Ian’s mouth twitch, and he groaned internally at the inevitable. “Wait for it…” Ian said, clearing his throat and pitching his voice low. “I think we’ve got company.” Then he grinned widely.

Mickey couldn’t help but a laugh a little, despite his anxiety. “Look at you, you’re so proud of yourself.”

They paused behind a hotel, scanning the area. Mickey didn’t see anyone, but he still had that feeling. Like they were being hunted. He was going to ask Iggy what he thought, because his brother seemed tense like a hunting dog, when Ian shushed them all, a little unnecessarily since no one was speaking.

Ian raised his eyebrows. “You hear that?”

Mickey didn’t hear anything at first, the but then there it was, just barely, floating toward them from god knew where.

“Is that…” Mickey trailed off, straining his ears. “I think that’s…”

“It’s fucking R. Kelly,” Lip said. 

Mickey gave him a look. “I was just going to say music, but you sure had that identification locked and loaded.”

“What, his shit’s good to bone to,” Lip said defensively. 

“With other dudes, maybe,” Ian said with a snicker, straightening up beside his brother. His smile grew though as he took in the faint melody. “God, I fucking missed music.” Ian closed his eyes, like he was trying to absorb the sounds through his skin.

Mickey started to laugh. “Dude, you fucking dancing right now?”

“Shhh, you’re ruining it,” Ian said. His hips were swaying softly, and his face was screwed up, biting his lip like a white dad dancing at a block party. It was the cutest thing Mickey had ever seen, bar none.

“This shit was my jam in seventh grade, man,” Iggy said from behind Mickey. Mickey spun around and caught Iggy nodding his head to the beat. 

Lip and Mickey shared a look and couldn’t help but giggle, actually giggle, it was stupid and reckless, they were in zombie territory and he was ninety percent sure they were being followed, but he felt almost stoned, watching their respective brothers groove to the faint sounds of R. Kelly, and it really was a amazing, he hadn't heard music since the Gallagher family laptop had run out of batteries a few weeks ago. Finally Lip shrugged and started rolling his shoulders, hamming it up. Mickey was cackling now, rolling his eyes. Ian heard him laughing and turned to boogie toward him.

“Come on Mick, get down with me,” Ian said.

“You’re really aging yourself up with that phrase, Gallagher,” Mickey laughed, but let Ian grab his hips to move them in a clumsy circle as Mickey gave token resistance. 

For a hot minute, all four boys gave in to the impromptu dance party in the shadow of the hotel building. 

“…it’s the freakin’ weekend baby, Imma bout to have me some fun,” Ian sang along, scrunching his nose up. Mickey let himself press his forehead against the goofball’s shoulder, grinning helplessly. He wanted it explained to him, in writing, how Ian could make him feel so suddenly, burningly happy when there was literally nothing to be happy about anymore, because he didn’t think he’d ever understand it.

Until the music faded away, and they were forced to reluctantly come back down from the high of the unexpected silliness. “Where was it coming from?” Ian asked.

There was a short silence, then more music drifted through the air, the rhythm bouncy.

“Is that the Spice Girls?” Mickey and Iggy asked in unison. Ian laughed out loud.

“What, Mandy was way into them when she was little, she played that shit all day, all night,” Mickey said.

Iggy snorted, poking him in the side. “Yeah sure, that was all Mandy.”

“Fucking traitor.” Mickey shoved his elbow into his brother’s ribs.

“Would you walnuts focus for a fucking second? Someone just switched songs,” Lip said. “A person did that, unless zombies are into girl bands from the 90s now.”

They all went silent, trying to detect the direction the music was coming from, which wasn’t easy, the empty streets and tall buildings creating an echo. 

“That way,” Iggy said after a minute. He pointed right, and they began following the sounds of Wannabe toward what Mickey could only assume was a rip in the space-time continuum that contained a high school slumber party.

He was close. It was Boystown.

It was Ian that called it first. “Oh my god, I know where we are.” He grinned at Lip. “We’re near that bar Monica wanted to take me to, back when she showed up with Bob.”

“What, that gay club?”

“Yeah, I snuck in with Mandy once after Monica skipped town again. We’re like a block away. The Fairy Tail.”

Mickey was taking the conversation in irritably. “What, missed the feeling of wrinkly old queens shoving their hands down your pants?” Thinking of Kash and Ned still made Mickey wretch a little, the fucking perverts.

Ian just laughed, giving Mickey a shove, and by then Mickey was distracted because the music cut out suddenly. He forgot about the heat, he forgot that they were probably being followed, he forgot about all of it because at the end of the street, under burnt-out signs for bars and clubs, huddled three humans, two men and a teenage girl. Their backs were to them, and they were talking intently to each other.

Mickey paused, along with the others, watching the three strangers from a distance. He spread his fingers around the handle of his gun warily.

Then he heard the girl start to yell at one of the guys. She poked him hard in the chest, and the man flinched. “That music was a fucking stupid idea and you should feel stupid, you want every zombie in the city on us?” she hollered, and Mickey felt his heart almost stutter to a halt, because he knew that holler.

“Holy fucking shit,” Iggy whispered at his side.

“Mandy,” Ian breathed out. Then he shouted it. “Mandy!”

Mandy whipped around from her place lecturing the men at her side. Her hair was long and wild, filled with knots and tangles. The planes of her face were sharp, even from a distance. Mickey swore she’d lost at least thirty pounds, and she’d been stick thin to begin with. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more beautiful sight in his life.

“Ian?” she called out uncertainly, then she caught sight of the rest of them. “Mickey? Mickey!” She started walking toward them, slowly, like she didn't believe what she was seeing. and Mickey felt himself pulled toward her too. It was like a dream, except then he was running, and he was moving faster than he ever did in dreams. He heard Lip and Ian and Iggy running with him but he beat them to it.

Mandy met him in the middle and Mickey wrapped both arms around her and lifted her off the ground. They’d never hugged much before, but it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He finally set her down, and he heard her laughing in his ear.

“Douchebag,” she said.

Mickey knew his voice was wrecked. “Asshole.”

Then Mandy pulled back. “You douchebag!” She yelled it this time, and punched him in the arm, hard as hell.

“Fuck!” Mickey shouted, pulling back, but Mandy followed him.

“You fucking douchebag!” She hit him again in the exact same spot. “You fucking left me here!” She kicked his shins and Mickey tried to get away, but she smacked him across the face. “How could you leave me out here?”

“I didn’t leave you, I didn't know where you even were, jesus!” Mickey insisted. Ian finally stepped in and wrapped his arms around Mandy from behind, restraining her like an angry cat.

“Take it easy,” he whispered into her ear. Mickey watched in amazement, unable to reconcile that his sister was in front of him, red with rage and so familiar and perfect he couldn’t handle it, he wanted to hug her again. She kicked out at him when he tried.

“Back the fuck off, fuck you!” Mandy shrieked at him, but no matter how she struggled Ian held her tight, until she just deflated. Her eyes were wet. “You never looked for me. You fucking left me.”

“I didn’t leave you,” Mickey insisted, chancing the step forward so he was close enough to touch her arm. “Mandy, I didn’t know where you were. I, I…” But Mickey knew it was a shitty excuse, and he could see she thought so too. He hadn't looked for her. He'd basically given her up for dead. He closed his mouth, guilt like a living thing scratching long nails through his insides until they were nothing but ribbons. He didn't know how to explain what he'd been thinking when the zombies hit. He barely remembered. It felt like a fever dream.

“Mandy,” one of the men she’d been talking to earlier called out. He came to stand near her, the other, shorter man flanking her other side. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. Ian released her, and she stepped away, wiping her wrist across her mouth. “Yes. Everything’s fine.” She turned to the two men. “Jose, Ben, these are my brothers. And that’s my best friend, and that’s—” She stopped, looking Lip over. “That’s some stray they picked up.”

Lip was looking at her wide-eyed, his expression intense, like he couldn’t speak. Mickey almost snorted, because that fuckhead was never speechless, but he was choked up too. Mandy watched them warily, Lip and Ian and especially Mickey at a total loss of what to say.

Against all odds, it was Iggy who stepped in and saved the day. He moved in front of Mandy and gently took her shoulders into his hands. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said, staring into her eyes. The sincerity in his voice was nearly ringing. Mandy squirmed a little, but held his gaze. “We all are.” Iggy motioned at Mickey and Ian and Lip with a nod of his chin. When had that kid gotten so fucking smooth, Mickey wondered incredulously. 

Mandy actually smiled at him. “I’m glad you’re okay too, Iggy.” Mickey didn’t miss that she had specified his name. She turned to Jose and Ben beside her. “Let’s get these assholes some food.”

“That is the sexiest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard you say in my life,” Ian said. Mandy snorted, and she reached for his hand, almost tentatively. Mickey saw Ian squeeze her hand and he felt a pang in his chest, over what exactly he couldn’t tell.

Mickey couldn't take his eyes off Mandy as they followed her and the two men toward the entrance to a building with an outline of Tinkerbell above the door, because he was afraid if he looked sideways she'd disappear. He couldn't believe she was alive. He wanted to hug her again and never let go, and damn he was fucking affectionate these days, jesus. He blamed Gallagher.

But Mickey also couldn't help but notice the way the men walked slightly behind Mandy, almost in deference. The shorter one, Ben, murmured something in Mandy’s ear. She nodded and Ben hurried on ahead.

The taller one, Jose, stood at the side of the door, ushering the rest of them in. Mickey was the last one. He noticed Jose was impeccably shaved and his v-neck was obviously clean, which made Mickey more aware of his own scruffy state. Mickey also noticed he had a handgun sticking out of the pocket of his skinny jeans. 

Jose had a sour expression on his face as he looked down at Mickey. “Do you mind if we leave your entourage outside?”

“What are you talking about?” Mickey asked. Jose looked behind him, and Mickey spun to follow his gaze.

About fifteen-odd zombies were huddled just at the corner about three blocks back, watching Mickey and the others hungrily as they went into the bar. The creatures made no move to attack. With a jolt of certainty, he was knew this is what had been following them, so quietly and carefully he’d barely noticed. The thought of over a dozen zombies tailing them silently for blocks made the hair on his arms and legs stick up. Why were they watching them like this, white eyes fixed on them while they stayed glued to their spots?

“What are they doing? Why aren’t they coming at us?” Mickey asked Jose.

Jose looked at him like he must be joking. “Are you serious?” When he saw Mickey looking clueless, Jose smirked. “You are serious. Where the hell have you idiots been, inside some hermetically sealed womb for five weeks?”

“Fucking South Side, bitch,” Mickey said irritably, because fuck this fucking judgmental bastard. He pushed aside him to get in the club, and Jose closed the door behind him.

It was so dark inside compared with the bright sun outdoors that he couldn’t see at first, reaching forward to grab at Ian in front of him as a guide. His eyes began to adjust and he saw there were about twenty other people inside, all men of varying ages but similar levels of leanness. Mickey could see shoulder blades and clavicles and bony elbows nearly poking through shirts everywhere he looked. They were thin like Mandy was thin, like they didn't even remember what it meant to be full anymore. Mickey and Ian and everyone in the neighborhood had lost weight over the last few weeks, yeah, but shit, not like this.

They parted as Mandy walked through. Mickey watched in total perplexity, because what the fuck was Mandy even doing here? Why the hell were all these guys parting for her like she was Jesus?

“You want beer?” she asked over her shoulder.

The word "beer" made Mickey forget to keep analyzing the situation with Mandy and these guys. “I would fucking kill Ian right here right now for a beer,” Mickey said without thinking, making Ian laugh in surprise. Mandy turned her head to give him an odd look, and Mickey realized she didn’t get the joke. She didn't know they were fucking, more than fucking. She didn't get the hilarity in the implication that he might hurt Ian, because he would never hurt Ian, not even for a delicious, cool, refreshing, fucking nectar-of-the-gods beverage and jesus fucking christ he really wanted that beer now.

She led them to a room in the back, it was probably a storage room at one point, and left to get the promised beers, bringing Iggy to help. Lip offered to help too, and even though she told him to fuck off, he followed her out anyway like a puppy. That’s when Mickey really looked around the room they were in, sunlight streaming in from a high window.

“Sweet golden palace of the Himalayas,” Mickey muttered in disbelief.

Ian slapped himself lightly on the cheek. “Wake up,” he said to himself. “Ian, wake up.”

“Dude, it’s for real,” Mickey said giddily, actually grabbing Ian’s arm in glee. “Lube as far as the eye can see!”

It was only a slight exaggeration. The back room of the club was stacked with boxes, and almost an entire wall was dedicated to boxes filled with bulk bags of individual lubricant packets.

Ian was grabbing handfuls and shoving them into his pocket, before he turned to Mickey and wrapped his arms around him, lifting and spinning him around in a circle. Mickey laughed, sputtering out protests, but when Ian finally set Mickey down, they just stared at each other, both breathing hard and grinning. Mickey could already feel himself getting hard, but he also loved how Ian looked like Ian again for a moment, carefree and young, and not like someone who was burning up from the inside with anger. Mickey was kissing him before he even thought to do it, and Ian was kissing him back, and it was happening again, Mickey felt pure happiness for a split second, and it was the oddest, most unexpected sensation.

“Hey, they got food, you guys want hot dogs or—” Lip said as he walked in the room, but shut his mouth when Ian and Mickey jumped apart, a little guiltily. “Jesus christ, keep it in your pants, you hornballs.”

Mickey flipped him off. “Blow me.”

“Hard pass,” Lip retorted.

Iggy stepped out from behind Lip, cradling a pile of Busch Lite cans. He screwed up his face in distaste.

“So you were serious about that gay shit, huh?” he asked. 

Mickey just gave him a look, because seriously, at this point.

“What gay shit?” Mandy asked as she re-entered the room. “You gay, Iggy? You came to the right place.” She smiled teasingly. 

Iggy would apparently not stand to be so maligned. “I’m not gay," he sputtered. He gestured wildly at Mickey. “He’s gay. He's gay with Gallagher.”

There’s an unsound a room makes, when all the air is sucked out of it, like silence suddenly becomes more silent than it was a moment before. Not for the first time, Mickey reflected on how even in a zombie wasteland, it was this gay shit that really seemed to knock all of his family on their ass.

Mandy’s mouth was hanging open. “What. The. Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boring sidebar: You may have noticed the number of chapters jumping around a bit, but I'm done messing with it now. I was worried the chapters would just get too mammoth toward the end, and I care about you guys too much to make you slog through a zillion words at a time (even though this one's still long as hell....pffff sorry gang). But hopefully this will help space out the plot and make things less rushed, at least to me.


	11. Chapter 11

Ian felt like he was watching history in the making. For all intents and purposes he was about to see Mickey come out for the first time.

Sure, Mickey’d outed himself at the Alibi to silence his dad, but Ian had assumed that was mostly because he’d gotten carried away in the moment and blurted it out, and then after, screaming how much he liked to fuck Ian while his brothers held him back, that was mostly Mickey being a hothead. 

This, though. Ian watched Mickey biting his lip, about to consciously decide to tell his sister the truth. Even though most people in the neighborhood knew, and his brothers and his uncles knew, this felt important. It felt like Mickey’s decision.

“Mickey, what the fuck?” Mandy prompted. She looked completely thunderstruck, like she was waiting for Mickey to sneer and say he was just fucking around.

“Um,” Mickey said. And that was it. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking like a pale, terrified fish. Then he gave up and looked at Ian, his face panicked, pleading with his eyes.

Ian held his hands up. “This is all you,” he said, as gently as he could. Mickey’s eyes bulged, like Ian had thrown him to the zombies.

But he turned back to Mandy, and Ian could see him clenching his fists. He still didn’t speak, but there was a tension about him, his shoulders growing visibly tight.

“Mandy,” he tried again. Just say it, Ian thought to himself. Mickey swallowed, and said it again. “Mandy."

Mandy threw her head back. “Good christ, you know my name, congratulations! Now fucking say something!”

“I’m trying, goddamnit!” Mickey snapped, which Ian supposed was a good sign. At least he hadn’t turned entirely nonverbal.

“Well I’m not going to guess and risk you kicking my ass because I misread the room,” Mandy argued back.

“It’s not fucking easy, you jackass,” Mickey said. 

“Stop being a pussy and fucking say it,” Mandy shot back.

Well, Ian thought, at least they had fallen back into their own rhythm. He watched Mickey squeeze his eyes shut, and mutter, “God fucking damnit.”

“Mandy,” he said, yet again. “I’m.” And that was as far as he got. 

“Like a Bandaid, just rip it off,” Ian suggested, earning himself a glare from Mickey. 

“I don’t need a cheerleader,” he said gruffly. He looked back at Mandy. “Mandy,” he said again.

“He’s fucking dying out there,” Lip ground out, and Ian was about to punch him but he noticed Lip was nearly as invested in the moment as Ian. 

Ian figured it was hard not to root for the guy, watching as Mickey somehow both tensed and trembled at the same time, fists clenched like he’d rather be somewhere, anywhere else, than articulating to his sister he liked to fuck dudes. 

“Just say it,” Iggy urged under his breath, getting caught up in the drama too, but Mickey was focused on Mandy.

“Mandy,” Mickey said, then stopped, and Ian could see he was getting frustrated with himself now. Mandy was watching him closely, and Ian knew there was no way she didn’t know by now, she'd overheard Iggy and Mickey was practically having a stress seizure in front of her, but she seemed to realize just like Ian did that this was bigger than her. This was Mickey choosing who he was. He needed to say it.

If he could just get the fucking words out, Ian thought as he watched Mickey’s throat work. “Mandy—”

“SAY IT!” she yelled suddenly.

“I’M GAY!” Mickey shouted back. “Shit.” His eyes went wide and he rocked back on his heels as Lip started a slow clap, shouting, “Whoomp, there it is!” and Iggy gave a cheer.

Ian couldn’t help but come over and shake him around by the shoulders, trying to loosen him up. “Good job, buddy!” he said, laughing.

Mickey actually leaned against him. He was red-faced like he’d run a mile. “Jesus, I think I’m going to pass out.”

“God, you’re all sweaty.”

“Fuck me. That sucked.”

After the boys began to come down off Mickey’s success, they all noticed Mandy was silent. That’s when Ian saw tears sliding down her face. 

“I’m so glad you told me,” she finally whispered, and nearly fell into Mickey’s arms. For the first time in a few days, Ian felt almost calm as he watched Mickey hold his sister in his arms. Eventually she pulled back and gave Ian a look as the truth dawned on her.

“Oh my god, I am so fucking stupid,” she said. She pointed at Mickey, raising her eyebrows at Ian. “He’s your mystery guy. He’s Mr. On The Down Low. All this time, you were fucking my brother.” Her face went slightly ashen. “Oh god, I know how my brother likes to fuck.” 

Ian laughed at Mandy’s misery while Mickey looked up at the ceiling, obviously waiting for the sweet release of death to take him.

“Yeah, at least you haven’t had to share a bedroom next to them for the last month,” Lip said. He made a face. “Mickey’s kind of a screamer.”

“Oh god!” Mandy threw her hands over her head. “Why would you tell me that, why?!”

“Jesus, make it stop,” Mickey said to the ceiling.

Eventually, Mandy settled down, but she still seemed squeamish. They sprawled out around the storage room, drinking warm beer. Ian was beside Mickey, but they made no move to touch one another. Ian could tell it still felt weird for Mickey, being there with his siblings who now knew everything.

They talked about nothing and everything for a while. Ian had no idea how much time passed, but the sun reflecting into a square on the floor from the high window was making its way across the room steadily. It felt good to laugh, and listen to the Milkovich siblings squabble and swear at each other. For the first few hours, Ian didn’t think they mentioned the word zombie once.

Then, slowly, like she couldn’t help herself, Mandy told them about the day the attacks started. She’d stopped on her way home from the job interview (“Which of course went fucking great, totally figures I’d find this awesome job right when the world falls apart.”) to reward herself with a beer a few blocks away. She said she’d liked the neighborhood when her and Ian had snuck into the Fairy Tail a few months back, and was just toasting her own success when suddenly, zombies.

Hearing Mandy describe the same reality they were all technically facing, Ian couldn’t help but notice how much grimmer hers sounded. She described strangers getting mauled beside her, zombies killing people, people killing zombies, and finally people killing people. The difference was striking. Mickey shooting Terry had been the first time a person had shot another person in the neighborhood. Mandy talked about how in the chaos of the first weeks, deaths by zombie and human alike had been common.

“Like straight-up Mad Max style, it was brutal,” she said, draining her beer can and crushing it idly under the heel of her hand. “The zombies, they were all over the place, but people went rabid too. At least zombies, they only want the one thing, you know? To fucking eat you. Humans want….” She trailed off, almost like she forgot she had an audience. “They want everything.” She was quiet for a while.

Ian looked sideways at Mickey. He was struck by how much he owed Mickey, how much the whole neighborhood did. He was sure that if Mickey hadn’t forced them to band together, to build the barricades, they would have probably turned on each other like it sounded the rest of the city did. Forgetting himself, he pressed his knee against Mickey’s, who didn’t do anything but not move his own knee away. It was enough for Ian.

“So how did you become queen of all the Chicago gays?” Ian asked, trying to bring Mandy back, and distract her from whatever awful vision she was reliving in her mind.

“Not all the gays, just twenty of them,” Mandy corrected with a small smile. “And it’s not even like that. We're more like allies really, it was easier to protect each other than fight,” Mandy said with a shrug. “Then it was just a coincidence that I knew where to find guns, because I’d helped Dad store that one shipment over on Fullerton in May, remember Mickey, that weekend I had to fill in for your flu-ridden ass?”

Ian remembered, twisting his mouth at the memory. Terry had nearly broken a few of Mickey’s ribs when he’d been too ill to come along on the run. Ian had only found out when he’d seen the bruises at the Cash N Grab a few days later. God, he was glad that fucker was dead and gone.

“And now they think that I know how to take care of them, that I know what to do. Which I don’t, not really.” Mandy closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the wall behind her. She looked tired, and way older than seventeen. “God, everything’s so fucked up.” 

“Where are you guys getting food?” Mickey asked. “That’s why we left the neighborhood. Our supply was…we lost it.”

Mandy didn’t seem to notice the way Mickey stuttered over the explanation. “Jose had a connection on the West Side, some Polish guy who used to work with his dad. At first it was fine, Jose and a few of the guys were able to head up there every few days and get supplies, but then shit went sideways, and the warehouse where the food and shit was hidden got attacked by this whole gang of people. Everything was stolen. Jose’s dad’s friend got shot, a few of our guys died.” Mandy’s face went grim at the memory. “It was a mess.”

Ian noticed that Mickey was staring at the concrete floor intensely.

“Mandy,” Mickey said quietly. “I need to tell you something. It’s about Dad.”

“What about Dad? Did you leave him back home?”

Mickey winced. Haltingly, he described the night of the fire, and how their dad had nearly killed all the Gallaghers. Ian felt like he was reliving it as Mickey told the story. He felt Lip and Iggy getting restless as well. When Mickey got to the part where he shot Terry, he choked up.

“I had to do it, Mandy,” he insisted, like he was pleading with her to understand. “It was like he went crazy. He wasn’t going to stop. I had to make him stop.”

Mandy didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally, she stood up. “You guys want food?”

Mickey looked startled. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Iggy, could you help me?” she asked her other brother, ignoring Mickey.

Iggy got up, looking between Mickey and Mandy warily. Mickey got up too.

“Mandy, say something to me,” Mickey said. 

“Are hot dogs okay?” she asked the group.

Ian nodded, and Mandy left with Iggy on her heels. Mickey slid back down beside Ian, looking bewildered and upset. He let Ian take his hand and thread their fingers together.

“Give her a minute,” Ian suggested. It wasn’t the world’s best advice, but it was the best he could do at the moment. Mickey nodded wordlessly.

“This must be so freaking surreal for her,” Lip said, almost to himself. “Like, we just popped up out of nowhere, and we’re dropping all this shit on her, and now she has to take care of us along with all these other guys like the old lady that lived in a shoe.”

“She doesn’t have to take care of us,” Mickey argued, but Ian didn’t agree exactly.

“Maybe she doesn’t have to, but she will.” He squeezed Mickey’s hand. “She’s like you. All this zombie shit just turned a switch in both of your heads. Now all you do is take in strays, you can’t help it.” Mickey didn't seem satisfied with Ian's answer, but in his distress he let Ian stroke the inside of his palm with his thumb, trying to soothe the other boy.

“Fuck you,” Mickey said, distracted.

Ian leaned his head against Mickey’s. “Maybe later. We got all that lube now.” He heard Mickey huff out a laugh.

Across the room, Lip thunked his head against the wall with a groan. “You guys are really fucking killing me today, you know.”

After a while, Mandy came back, arms laden with a tray of hot dogs, no buns. She set the tray on the floor, avoiding looking at any of them. Iggy followed with five more cans of beer and Jose from earlier brought up the rear, setting down a crate.

“These are about to go bad,” Jose said, gesturing at the crate. He looked at Mandy, like he wanted to comfort her but didn't know how. Mandy must have told him, Ian thought. “Seemed like you guys might want them.”

Ian leaned to have a look, and almost freaked out. “Holy shit, are those oranges?” Four overripe-looking oranges sat in the bottom of the crate and Ian dove for one, peeling it with frantic fingers. He ripped away a section and stuffed in his mouth. “Holy shit, that’s delicious.” He was starting to feel drunk off one warm beer and a piece of orange. He handed a few sections to Mickey while Iggy and Lip rushed to peel the rest of the oranges.

Jose smiled at their enthusiasm and left, squeezing Mandy’s elbow on his way out.

Mickey ate a piece of orange, but he was distracted. He was looking at Mandy, who was pointedly looking away. Finally she seemed to break. “Stop staring at me.”

“What are you thinking,” Mickey asked quietly. Finally she snapped her head around to glare at him. Her face was flushed.

“I don’t know what I’m fucking thinking,” Mandy said. She sounded more irritated at that than anything. “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to cry, or scream at you, or try to beat you up? Am I supposed to thank you for killing Dad?” Her eyes were hard as she stared at Mickey. “Up until a few hours ago I thought you were all dead. In my head, Dad was already gone, and so were you. And now you’re here, and you’re actually alive.” Her voice was rising as she got going. “But then you’re telling me no, Dad is dead, but you killed him. And he was an asshole, I mean we all know that. But he was our dad.” She was breathing hard, almost panting. “But you’re my brother, and I love you. And you killed him.” She kicked at her empty beer can suddenly. “And you’re not happy that I can’t give you a straightforward fucking emotion? Fuck, Mickey. Tell me how I should feel, because I have no fucking idea.”

Mickey was frowning, but he didn’t argue with Mandy. Ian almost wished he would. Seeing him cowed like this was almost as bad as the helpless look on Mandy’s face.

In a manner that was becoming oddly familiar, Iggy cut through the bullshit. “I’m tired as shit. I think we should go to bed.” He gestured to the high window. It was just getting dark outside.

"No, we can't stay the night, we have to get home," Mickey tried to say, but Mandy cut him off.

"Don't be difficult, asshole," Mandy said wearily. "Jose told me about your little entourage outside. You guys leave now, you're fucked. They've been waiting for you all day."

Ian frowned. "What entourage? What's she talking about?" Mickey didn't answer him. He was still looking at Mandy.

"Fine," Mickey relented, and Mandy nodded, leaving again to reappear with a heap of yoga mats, of all things. She shrugged at Ian’s expression. “Jose was a yoga instructor in the studio upstairs,” she said.

Everyone spread out on the floor with mats, the ease from earlier completely gone. Ian set up a mat next to Mickey’s and tried to close his eye, but he felt too hyped up.

He was also super conscious not to spoon with Mickey. They’d slept together in front of other people before, mostly in Ian’s tiny single bed when Lip took his old room, but usually Mickey kept up the pretense of starting the night on the floor before migrating up to the bed with Ian when all the other boys in the room were asleep. And now with Mandy eyeing them from across the room, her expression unreadable, and Mickey lying morosely facing the wall, Ian had to fight his natural instinct to curl up behind the shorter boy and pull him tight to his front.

He turned so his back was to Mickey, and then he flopped back onto his back, heaving a sigh. He turned to his other side.

“Gallagher,” Mickey whispered irritably. 

“What,” Ian whispered back.

“Would you get your twitchy ass over here?”

Ian hesitated, until Mickey turned his head to look at him. Mickey looked disgruntled.

“Seriously, you flopping around over there like you got fleas is driving me crazy. C’mere,” he said. 

Ian wasted no time plastering himself against Mickey, his haste surely making the other boy roll his eyes. “Oh my god, chill. Just try not to drool on my neck,” Mickey grumbled, but he held on to Ian’s arm tightly, like he needed the anchor after all the confessions that night.

Ian wiggled around a little bit, settling against him. “No promises.”

In this position, Ian was able to look across the room directly into Mandy’s eyes. She was frowning at them, and Ian blinked his eyes closed, blushing under her scrutiny. 

He was more comfortable wrapped around Mickey, but he still couldn’t sleep. After a while he opened his eyes again, and saw Mandy had rolled to her other side, her back to him now. He stared at her back, lost in his own thoughts, for an indeterminable length of time. He assumed he was the last one awake, so he was in the perfect position to watch with surprise as Lip get up from his spot in the corner around midnight and come to sit beside Mandy.

“Mandy,” Lip said softly. He carefully set one hand on her shoulder. “Are you awake?” Mandy seemed to go even stiller, and Ian knew she must be awake, but she didn’t say a word.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Lip said. Slowly, like he was dismantling a bomb, he settled onto the floor so he was lying on his back beside Mandy, staring at the ceiling. “I know we piled a lot on you today. I just wanted to talk to you. You don’t have to listen if you don’t want, I just…needed to talk to you.” Lip took a deep breath, and then said nothing. Ian thought he’d lost his nerve and was just going to lay there in silence instead.

Ian loved his brother. He loved all his siblings with an intensity that rivaled anything else he knew other than what he felt for Mickey, but Lip was special to him. He had been Ian’s absolute hero when they were younger. Ian had worshipped him. He still found himself in awe of Lip sometimes, his impossibly smart and unflappable big brother. 

That said, Ian could appreciate that Lip was kind of a tool with other people. He had a tendency to fuck over even his own best interests in his attempts to keep anyone who wasn’t immediate family at arm’s length. Ian was in a weird position with Lip and Mandy’s relationship, because he could see exactly how Mandy and Lip were constantly sabotaging each other, usually unintentionally, almost all of the time. Mandy loved too hard, and Lip loved too conditionally, but then, maybe he was Mandy, and Mickey was Lip.

Which made it extra weird to watch him as he seemed to ready himself to reveal some kind of secret. In the circle of his arms, he felt Mickey jerk in his sleep, his hands twitching on Ian’s forearms. Ian hugged him a little closer, because he could. 

Lip was speaking again. “I was so worried about you,” he said. His voice was so low Ian could barely hear him. “I was so worried, Mandy.” Another pause. “Nobody knew where you were. I tried to figure out where your interview was, but your brothers didn’t remember. I even tried to hack into your email account, but then the internet crashed, and I…I didn’t know what to do. It felt like I was going crazy. You ever feel that way before?” Lip smiled humorlessly. “Probably not, right? Remember how you always told me I think too much? Like that one time I was complaining about college or some shit, like how I didn’t want to apply for a million dumb reasons, and then you hit me and just kind of yelled, ‘Get your head out of your ass, you idiot. It’s not a hat.’” He chuckled. “You probably think I’m full of shit, but I still think about that. A lot, actually. It’s like become this motto I say to myself.”

Lip trailed off, the sound of Iggy snoring and Mickey’s slow, even breathing the only sounds in the room. He must think everyone else was asleep, or Ian was sure he would never talk like this. Ian kept perfectly still, completely fascinated hearing his brother speak. It was like a vulnerable alien had crawled inside of his brother’s brain and stared piloting his body.

Ian saw Lip begin to turn his head, so he snapped his eyes shut before his brother could catch Ian watching like a creep. After a minute or so, Lip spoke up again.

“How fucking bananas is it that your brother is in love with my brother though?” Lip whispered. “Must’ve been a big shock to hear. I’ve known for a lot longer and it still catches me off guard sometimes.” Lip’s voice grew quieter still. “Want to know something weird? Like, seriously fucked up? I’m actually a little....jealous of them. Even though everything's so fucked, with all this shit going on, they have each other. Like you and me used to—well, before I fucked everything up.” 

Ian went still. He didn’t know Lip felt that way, about him and Mickey. He didn’t know how worried he’d been about Mandy. It made him feel like a terrible younger brother, never bothering to check if Lip was really as okay as he pretended. Ian had even thought bitterly more than once how easily Lip had been able to adapt to life at the end of the world. He’d never taken the time to find out if Lip was really that adaptable after all, or just a fantastic actor. 

When Ian thought Lip was finally going to put himself out of his misery and go to sleep, Lip sounded like he leaned a little closer to Mandy to whisper: “I’m sorry, Mandy. For so much. I’m sorry.”

Mandy said nothing in reply to Lip’s speech when he finally fell silent. Ian took a chance and opened his eyes again to watch. Even as a third-party observer, the contact awkwardness rolling off Lip was suffocating. 

Ian was nearly positive Mandy had defensively fallen asleep a long time ago just to help the uncomfortable one-sided confession session die a more humane death.

But maybe he’d never really understood Mandy and Lip’s relationship as well as he thought he did. Because that had always been Mandy’s super strength, hadn’t it: the ability to take action, even if she couldn’t put what she was feeling into words, even if it put her heart at risk. She was a lot like Mickey in that way. 

As Ian watched, she rolled over so she was pressed against Lip, burying her face in his chest. Lip’s arms immediately closed around her and he was kissing her hair, murmuring her name over and over, his voice hoarse and Ian thought he might be crying.

Finally, he couldn’t stand being a voyeur any longer, so he shut his eyes tight, pressing his face into Mickey’s sleep-flushed neck and doing his best to block out his brother and Mandy across the room, Lip speaking more tenderly to Mandy than Ian had ever heard him speak to anyone.

Zombies, man. They were a fucking trip.

Then, so gradually he didn’t know it was happening at first, he was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming, not because they were suddenly in the middle of the old baseball diamond where they used to fuck, or not because he was suddenly on top of Mickey, driving into him like he was about to lose mind, but because Mickey was gasping, “I love you, I love you,” over and over again into Ian’s ear.

Mickey had never said that to him in real life. Ian had never said it to Mickey either, but it had never bothered him until now. He knew Mickey loved him, and there had kind of been bigger things to deal with lately. But at that moment, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard, and he redoubled his pace, slamming into the smaller boy below him as hard as he could.

“I love you, I love you,” Mickey kept saying. Ian felt drunk on it, on the fresh air he smelled outside, curiously free of any rot or lingering smell of zombies, and he found himself wishing this dream could last forever.

But Ian was ripped away, his feet dragging him up and out of Mickey, marching him backward, and fighting it only succeeded in making his legs give out, dropping him bonelessly to the ground.

Mickey followed him, stalking Ian’s journey across the field.

“You better the fuck away from me,” Mickey said, and his face was changing. He didn’t look like Mickey as much anymore.

“Just say it, just once,” Ian demanded in his dream, from where he now sprawled on the dirt near first base. He demanded it even though in his head he knew he’d already heard Mickey say these things, even if the ‘love’ thing was only implied when they were awake. “You love me, and you’re gay.” 

Above him, Mickey sneered, and he looked inhuman. “You’ll never hear me say that shit. Because I don’t.” Then he kicked Ian as hard as he could across the face, and Ian had heard somewhere that you weren’t supposed to be able to feel the sensation of pain in a dream, but he definitely felt this pain as it vibrated from his nose down to his heart down to the tips of his toes.

Ian begged Mickey not to leave, but the dream was already shifting, and suddenly Mickey was gone and he was in the middle of an abandoned business park by an empty building. Fiona was in front of him. Her clothes were torn and there was a long, bloody gash that crossed her face from temple to chin.

“Ian, wake up,” Fiona said to him urgently.

Ian obeyed, waking up with a gasp. He sat up like a jack-in-the-box, gasping and feeling guilty and anxious as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Yo, where’s the fire?” Mickey grumbled from where Ian had jostled him awake on the mat. 

Ian didn’t answer, not trusting for a crazy minute that this was the real Mickey and not the cruel stranger for his dream. Even when this Mickey sat up in concern, trying to get Ian to talk, not even when the commotion woke up the others and they crowded around him as he tried to catch his breath. Mandy held his hand, and Lip kept asking him what had happened. But he couldn’t explain it. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“We have to get moving,” Ian said, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going on holiday for a few days, but the next chapter should be up by the middle of next week. Buckle up, because it's going to be a doozy. Til then, have a great weekend!


	12. Chapter 12

“You can’t leave,” Jose said. He was standing with his arms crossed, blocking the door of the club that opened up onto the street. The rest of the men were watching the confrontation silently, and Mickey privately thought they were fucking spooky.

It was the morning after Ian woke up and began demanding they return home with an intensity that was freaking the rest of them out. Mandy was trying to reason with the men before her. Lip stood at her side, an arm wrapped almost possessively around her shoulder. “Jose, I have to go home,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

“You can’t. We can’t let you leave us,” Jose said. 

Lip tightened his arm around Mandy, his other hand holding his gun loosely at his side. “Dude, come on. Would you listen to yourself?”

Mickey was pissed and wanted to fucking kill this Jose dude, but he was also distracted by how protective Lip seemed of his sister. He’d been touching Mandy since they’d all woken up an hour ago, small touches on her shoulder and elbow, running a hand down her hair, like he didn’t want to lose contact. Mickey thought it was kind of weird as hell, because last he knew Mandy hated Lip. 

“We have to get home,” Ian said, for what must have been the tenth time that morning. He seemed shaken, and Mickey didn’t know what to do. Ian was adamant, but they’d found exactly dick in the food and supplies department, and there wasn’t much to steal here at the club.

Ben, the shorter man who’d they met the day before, came to stand beside Jose. “Jose’s right, Mandy. We need to stick together.” He paused, glancing up at Jose, whose face was hard. “Besides, you owe us. We took you in, back before. You can’t just run off now.”

Mandy looked pained, and Lip was outraged, and they both looked ready to launch into a long, involved argument with these two stubborn queens. Jesus, Mickey got that Mandy was probably tougher than all these idiots put together, but their desperation at keeping Mandy to watch over them was creeping him out.

Mickey looked at Ian beside him, who was pale and still clearly shook up from whatever had spooked him the night before, and Mickey decided the time for fucking diplomacy was through.

He flipped the safety off his handgun and fired it above head. The others startled and yelled, but then quieted as Mickey palmed his AK in his other hand.

“Thanks for the hot dogs assholes, but this is the end of the line,” Mickey said. He faced Jose squarely. “You better fucking move or I’ll blow you away, and not in a good way.” Mickey moved toward the door, the others filing behind him. 

“You can’t go out this way,” Jose insisted, stepping in Mickey’s path.

“Okay tough guy, whatever you say,” Mickey said dismissively. He shoved the butt of his gun into Jose’s abdomen so the older man doubled over. Behind him, he heard the click of weapons and knew Ian and Lip were covering him, their guns leveled on the rest of the men who were watching the proceedings warily. Mickey stepped over Jose on the ground and yanked on the heavy blackout door.

The door swung open in his hand, revealing an endless crowd of zombies standing on the other side, almost patiently, like they’d been about to ring the doorbell and ask to talk about our lord and savior Jesus Christ.

Mickey froze. At his shoulder, Iggy made a whistling sound, like the air going out of tire, a long, sustained, “Fffft.”

The zombies didn’t attack right away. They looked at Mickey, and the people behind Mickey, their milky white eyes not exactly focusing on the people in front of them, instead seeming to absorb the whole scene without need of blinking or glancing around. 

Then they surged forward as a nearly single being, and it all went to shit.

They poured into the club like ants into a hive, Mickey and Ian falling to the side under the onslaught, Lip pulling Mandy away, Iggy opening fire immediately but barely slowing them down. Mickey began firing as well, but the zombies overwhelmed them. 

In hindsight, Mickey would come to believe the only thing that saved them was the sheer number of zombies that had gathered outside the club. They poured inside and went wild at the sight of humans, the frenzy making them clumsy in their haste to consume, while their sheer number created just enough chaos that everyone, alive and undead, didn’t know what was happening.

It reminded Mickey of trying to get on the L during rush hour, crowds rushing in the one direction while you tried to squeeze into the natural spaces at the edges and corners. Mickey kept one hand tangled in Ian’s shirt and his other hand wrapped around his handgun to use as a cudgel, mindlessly, frantically bludgeoning his way through until he felt sunlight on his face. 

The sight outside nearly made his legs give out. Zombies were packed shoulder to shoulder in the street, stretching up the block and around the corner. Mickey might have frozen completely if Ian hadn’t pushed into his back, propelling him forward.

The creatures immediately noticed Mickey and Ian, and Iggy as he followed them out. There were too many to shoot, there were too many to fight. Mickey thought maybe Mandy and Lip were behind them, but he wasn’t sure, because then he was running before he’d told his feet to move.

He tucked his chin down, picking up the pace, Ian gasping for breath beside him. His knees and feet were aching as they pounded the concrete, his lungs were burning, it felt like they were running for miles. He could hear snarls and shrieks as the zombies gave chase, man they were fucking loud but also they were fucking fast, christ how could they outrun them, the zombies probably had stamina like you read about, and Mickey was sure this was the end. They would run a few blocks, and the zombies would overtake them, and they would be eaten alive. In a far-off blank corner of his mind, he thought how much it sucked that Ian had to die this way. He should never have let him come with on this fucking mission from hell.

They sprinted past a gas station, and out of the corner of his eye Mickey say Iggy veer off to the left, slowing down marginally. Mickey wanted to yell at him, tell him to keep going, but he didn’t have the breath.

Then Iggy pulled both assault rifles he had slung around his neck to the front, and fired at the gas pumps, unloading round after round.

Mickey was immediately and completely positive Iggy’s efforts wouldn’t work. The pumps were probably empty, the gas siphoned out weeks ago. But then there was a low rumble, almost coming from beneath their feet. 

If their lives were a movie, the whole station would have blown in one glorious ball of fire, but in real life the effect was more gradual. Booming sounds built up from under the pump, bubbling to the surface, and a plume of smoke went up before any flames appeared. But once the flames showed up, the whole thing began to cascade so quickly Mickey lost track of the series of events.

The zombies at the front of the hoard that had been chasing them slowed, heads tilting up. Mickey knew they hated fire, but they seemed unsure of smoke, and stood gazing at it as though mesmerized, forgetting about Mickey and Ian and the rest of them for a moment.

Mickey didn’t realize he had slowed to watch until Iggy shoved into him. “Mickey, come on, move your ass!” Iggy was runing back from the pump, taking advantage of the distracted zombies.

“Shit, we need to move,” Lip yelled. Mickey watched him grab Mandy’s arm at the elbow and practically yank her along with him. He followed his lead and pulled on Ian’s shirt, who seemed as absorbed by the smoke ballooning up from the gas station as the zombies were.

They made it half a block before the explosion. Mickey would always regret the fact that his back was to the gas station, and he’d not been able to see the explosion firsthand, because from the force of the air rush and heat that knocked them all forward, it must have been completely badass. But that was his last thought before he was knocked to the ground by the strength of the blast.

His ears were ringing painfully. He was on his back, staring blearily up at the sky. The sky was black. Why was the sky black? Smoke, he realized. It was filled with smoke. His head lolled to the side, and he saw Ian’s face as though from a great distance. Ian’s mouth was moving, but the sounds were slow to reach Mickey’s ears.

Finally Ian hauled Mickey up so he was sitting, and Ian’s voice began to filter into his brain. 

“Mick, get up,” Ian was saying desperately. “We have to go, come on, get up, get up.”

Mickey didn’t want to get up. He was happy to lie on the cement for the rest of his life, keeping completely still so his sore body wouldn’t hurt, but Ian seemed very upset. He didn’t like Ian to be upset, he reasoned, so he let Ian pull him to his feet, his body protesting painfully. He let Ian pull him to start walking, following Ian as he led the way, Iggy stumbling behind him. Lip had Mandy propped up against his side, and together they hobbled down the street.

As they walked, Mickey’s head started to clear. He pulled out of Ian’s grasp to turn, walking backward to take in the sight behind him. The smoke made it difficult to see for sure, but he thought half the block had been eaten by a crater. The air was so thick with the smell of gas and fumes that Mickey’s eyes were streaming tears.

After what felt like days, they stopped in the shadows of a parking garage. Mickey had no idea where they were. He just collapsed against the wall, hacking so hard he thought his lungs would burst. Vaguely, he felt Ian fall beside him, heaving nearly identical coughs.

The five of them were silent as they recovered. Finally Lip, who was holding Mandy’s hand tightly in his own, shifted to look at Iggy, whose eyes were closed as he leaned against the cement wall, breathing shallowly.

“Iggy for president of the apocalypse,” Lip said. His voice sounded torn to shreds.

“He’s got my vote,” Ian wheezed out.

Mickey couldn’t help but gaze at his brother a little wonderingly. “Seriously, how did you think to…I can’t believe…Wow, man. Just, wow.” He was floored that Iggy was the one to have the presence of mind to save them all. Man, he must be some asshole not to realize that his own brother was a secret situational genius this whole time.

“Yeah, yeah,” Iggy said, pausing to cough. “Drink it in, dickheads.” He rubbed at his face. “Fuck, I think I burned my eyebrows off.”

Mickey peered more closely, and in fact, Iggy had. His face was singed and clean of any hair. And somehow it was the funniest goddamn thing Mickey had ever seen in his life, and before he knew it he was cackling like a witch, laughing louder the more he tried to stop, and the others joined in, their laughter maniacal in its intensity.

Mandy was the first to calm down. Her face was stark. “Jose and the others...I can’t believe I left them to die. I can’t believe I did that.”

Mickey wanted to say good fucking riddance to those crazy assholes, but Lip beat him to it. Lip framed Mandy’s face with his hand, gently pulling her to face him. Mandy held onto his wrists, tears streaming down her face and leaving tracks in the smoke residue on her face. “There was nothing you could do,” Lip said. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You already gave them everything. You had to save yourself.” Mandy let him settle her into his side, hugging him tightly around the waist.

Mickey swiveled to spear Ian with a look, raising his eyebrows to say, what the fuck is going on over there. Ian raised his eyebrows back, as if to say, who the fuck knows.

“They were waiting for us, you know,” Mandy whispered from the shelter of Lip’s arms. “Usually they stalk you for a few days, then attack, but that was the longest I’ve ever seen them wait.”

“Why would they be waiting for us?” Ian asked, completely perplexed. Mickey knew the feeling.

“They must have been waiting for see if anybody else was going to join us. Any more humans,” Mandy said.

It was still difficult for Mickey hear, the ringing in his eardrums made it difficult to focus on Mandy’s words, but he did his best, because what she was saying was fucking terrifying.

“They’re getting better at hunting us,” she said. Her teeth were chattering audibly, making her words wobble too. “Since they started moving in packs, they’ve gotten better at making sure they get the highest kill.”

Mickey didn’t have a fucking clue what she was talking about. Highest kill? Jesus, that was some Call of Duty shit, not a bunch of rabid zombies killing and eating at random. 

He wanted to grill his sister for more details, but Iggy stood up. “I think we need to keep moving,” he said. Mickey shrugged and got up, pulling Ian up beside him. He was happy to let Iggy take the reins for a minute here, and Iggy was right, they didn’t know how many zombies were still following them. 

They crept out of the parking garage, scanning the street for danger but seeing no movement. Mickey didn’t have that feeling on the back of his neck either, like they weren’t alone. They moved quickly up the street, getting their bearings and turning west.

After a few blocks, Ian spoke up. “We should head further south. We need to get back.” His voice was urgent, his eyes darting around. Mickey nudged him with his shoulder, trying to calm him down.

“We will. We just need to look a little more to see if we can find more supplies,” he said. Ian shook his head.

“No, we need to go now,” Ian insisted, that harried, distracted note still in his voice, and Mickey was getting angry, because fuck he couldn’t help calm the kid down if he wouldn’t explain why he was so antsy all of a sudden, but Mandy cut in.

“I know where we might find something,” she said, her voice resigned. She didn’t sound happy about it, but she wouldn’t elaborate. “Just, you’re going to have to be cool, okay?” She looked at Mickey specifically, and he snorted. He was so tried, anyway. What difference did it make.

“Fucking whatever, just lead the way, Sacagawea.”

She guided them to the edge of Lakeview, the others following mutely. Mickey noticed as they passed Western Avenue, then the Chicago River, Mandy keeping them in the shadows and on side streets where they could help it.

Finally, she brought them to the front of what looked like a long-abandoned building. “Here we are.”

Mickey looked up at the building, nonplussed. “This looks like a perfectly lovely spot to build a Petco, or maybe a 21 Flavors, but what the fuck are we doing here?”

“Shut up, Mickey,” Lip said, without heat. He turned to Mandy, adopting that gentle, focused voice he used with her all of a sudden, making Mickey roll his eyes. “Is there food inside? Where did you bring us?”

“I don't know if there’s no food inside,” Mandy hedged, making Mickey throw his hands in the air.

“Well thank fuck for that, I would hate to jeopardize our losing streak!”

“Shut up, and you and Ian give me all your weapons,” Mandy said. Mickey protested, but she cut him off. “Hide the smaller guns in your pants, but give me the assault rifles. Fucking do it, Mickey!” she said, cutting off his protest. Mickey glared at her, but Mandy wouldn’t look away.

“Just do it,” Ian said, sighing. He sounded tired and impatient. He gave Mandy his AK and tossed his baseball bat with the nails to Lip, who caught it by the handle. Grumbling and irritated at the unnecessary mystery, Mickey relented and handed the AR-15 from his neck to Iggy. Mandy waited until they disarmed, then trained her gun on Mickey. 

“Mandy, what the fuck!” Mickey yelled, but Mandy rolled her eyes.

“Oh relax, you big pussy,” she said. She nudged Lip at her side. “Point your gun at Ian. You too, Iggy.” When they both hesitated, her eyes went black. “I swear to god, fucking do it. Just trust me, please.” Lip immediately put his gun up, and Mickey couldn’t help but roll his eyes at his rush to please Mandy. Ian went tense beside him, watching his brother and Iggy aiming uncertainly at the other boys.

Mandy didn’t seem to notice their collective discomfort. She seemed to be waiting for something. Mickey didn’t have to wait long for what.

A painfully thin preteen boy emerged from the edge of the building. He had a long knife in his hand, his face sharp and bony. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I brought a trade,” Mandy called back. Mickey looked closer at the young boy, who was no older then thirteen or so, and with a jolt noticed there was blood on his face, dark and rust-colored. Not smears, but shapes. Some kind of symmetrical design on both cheeks.

The boy looked at Mandy suspiciously, then glanced at Mickey and Ian, who were still being held loosely at gunpoint by their respective brothers. “Just those two?” he called back.

“Meat for supplies, you know the drill,” she responded. The preteen tilted his head speculatively. 

Mickey was still bewildered, and Lip and Iggy seemed no less confused. It was Ian who was the quickest on the uptake. He seemed to blanche beside Mickey. “Wait, are we the meat?” 

“What?” Mickey said dumbly. “Wait, WHAT?”

Mandy ignored him. “We caught these two, but we need other food, and supplies,” she said. The adolescent finally nodded, motioning for them to follow him. Mandy nudged Mickey sharply with the tip of her rifle so that he stumbled a little. “Hurry the fuck up.” Her voice was ugly, and even though Mickey assumed (or at least hoped, fucking christ) that she was playing a part, it still gave him chills.

The others played along, Ian following Mickey as Lip and Iggy brought up the rear, still pointing their guns at him. Mickey tried to follow what was going on as Mandy led the way behind the boy with the blood on his face. The inside of the building smelled like a hot pond, and there were rusty colored stains on the walls. Things started to fall into place in his head all at once.

“Time out on the play, ref,” Mickey interrupted, keeping his voice low so the boy up ahead couldn’t hear him, but making a time-out signal with his hands. “Are you fucking telling me your plan was to use us as bait? And you never thought, ‘Hey, maybe I should tell the gang, you know, clue them in a little?’” Mandy didn’t answer, making Mickey even madder. “Fuck you, Mandy!”

“Shut up Mickey, we didn’t have a choice,” Mandy finally muttered to him under her breath. “I didn’t even know if these dipshits still lived here, I figured they’d have wiped each other out by now.” She shook her hair out of her eyes defensively. “I didn’t see you coming up with any ideas, shithead, get off my ass.”

The youth led them up a flight of stairs, throwing nervous glances over his shoulder at the group following him. Up close, Mickey could see just how dirty and malnourished the boy was, blood under his fingernails. The designs on his face made Mickey feel sick to his stomach.

They reached the second floor, and a group of equally skinny, grungy adolescents leapt to their feet where they’d been sitting in a circle on the floor. They grabbed for knives at their sides, the blades so long they looked like spears.

“Who the fuck are these guys?” one of the girls demanded. The boy who led them up motioned at Mickey and Ian with the blade of his knife.

“They want to trade them,” he said. “Meat for supplies.”

The girl who’d spoken peered at Mandy, her eyes narrowed. “Wait, I know you.” She snapped her fingers, like she was trying to remember a word she’d forgotten. “Yeah, I know you, you came that one time with all those old guys. Thought you didn’t want any part of our ‘lord of the flies cannibal bullshit,’” the girl sneered, clearly quoting Mandy.

Mickey almost snickered, because yeah, that sounded like Mandy. Mandy only shrugged coolly.

“Push came to shove, I guess,” she said. She glanced over the teenagers in front of her. “This all of you? Fuck, guess you started turning on each other after all, huh?”

The girl practically snarled at her. “Shut the fuck up,” she said. She looked past her, focusing on Mickey and Ian. Her eyes seemed to go bright and intense, making Mickey’s skin crawl. “How much do you want for them?”

“It depends. I need to see what you got,” Mandy said, her voice so casual Mickey thought only he noticed the steel behind it. 

The girl nodded at the boy who had led them inside. “Marcus can take you to the basement.”

Mandy smiled. “Thanks for that,” she said, and quick as a flash she was shifting so her gun pointed at the preteens in front of her now. Before any of them could say a word, she opened fire, mowing them down with a single-minded precision that made even Mickey’s mouth go dry. When the last child dropped, she pulled up on her gun.

“Stupid fucking cannibal idiots,” Mandy scoffed, looking down at the bodies in front of her with distaste. She turned and took Mickey’s rifle from around Iggy’s neck and tossed it back to him. “Here you go.” Lip handed Ian’s gun back too, eyes wide. She noticed all of them staring at her, mouths open in nearly identical expressions of shock. “Shut your fucking fish faces, let’s go to the basement.”

“Playing it pretty fast and loose here, don’t you think?” Mickey yelled, shoving at her shoulder. “Jesus christ, Mandy.”

“I didn’t know where these tweakers were keeping their stash, they kept moving it around back before,” Mandy snapped. “There used to be over two dozen of them, but I guess they got sloppy once their supply started to dry up.”

Mickey’s head was swimming from the sudden shoot-out, and he actually longed for the relative normalcy of the neighborhood, because while the neighborhood was its own set of headaches, this shit out here was some next level crazy. Cannibals. Jesus fuck. And Mandy looked so calm, like this was the least biggest deal of her day.

“Come on, you guys, let’s get the lead out,” she said impatiently. Even Lip looked a little unsure as they followed her downstairs, but he still kept a hand at the small of her back, Mickey noticed, like even now he didn’t like to be separated.

The basement smelled like straight-up mold. Mickey almost choked at the smell. In the corner, there was a small pile of boxes and plastic sacks. 

Mickey forgot about the fucked up scene from upstairs and hurried to the pile. He started pulling out items. Rice, cans of soup, containers of flour and sugar. There was even some stale bread wrapped in plastic. Mandy watched smugly from the doorway as Lip and Iggy and Ian fell to their knees beside Mickey, giddily going over the haul in front of them. He was grinning, and he was about to tell Mandy he was sorry for everything he had ever said to her, that she was the smartest, most beautiful sister in the world, when he heard a deep-throated yell behind him.

He let instinct take over as he spun around and fired without looking, the automatic weapon letting out a spray of bullets.

Another preteen was silhouetted in the doorway to the basement, his face painted red like the others upstairs. He fell slowly to his knees, clutching the gaping hole in his chest. Relief coursed through Mickey for a split second.

But as the boy fell forward, he revealed Mandy standing behind him, a look of almost perfect surprise on her face.

Mickey didn’t understand at first, but then he saw blood begin to bloom from the bullet hole in her neck. She grabbed at the wound and staggered over the dead boy at her feet, eyes on Mickey like she was trying to reach him, but then she wobbled. In one graceful movement, she crumpled to the ground. 

Lip yelled out something unintelligible, stumbling to Mandy’s side, Iggy on his heels.

Mickey threw his gun away from him. It clattered as it hit the floor. He fell to his knees, his ears ringing nearly as bad as they had earlier after the gas station explosion. He was gasping in disbelief, in horror, how had his happened, how had he done this.

He wanted to go to Mandy, hold her head up off the filthy ground, check and see if he could revive her, save her, keep her with him, but he knew it was pointless. It was all fucking pointless. His stupidly brave, iron-willed, fucking young little sister didn’t die at the hands of a zombie, she died because her brother, her own fucking brother, jesus christ, because he had killed her by fucking accident, goddamnit, god fucking damnit, the words were swirling in his head and he thought would vomit, he wished he could so he could expel some of the ugliness from inside of him.

Someone was screaming, an ugly, keening sound, and he didn’t know where it was coming from. He felt someone wrapping their arms around him, it was Ian, of course it was Ian, and he let him, barely feeling the contact on his skin. Then he noticed the screaming was muffled as he pressed his face into Ian’s chest, and oh. The screaming was coming from him. Mickey was screaming.

The world went indistinct for Mickey for a long time after that. After a long period where he could only sit slumped on the floor, the sounds of Lip and Iggy’s panicked noises the only things he heard until the room went silent save for low voices and sobbing. 

He became vaguely aware that Ian was leading him out of the basement.

Maybe days, but probably only hours later, Mickey came back to himself, slowly. He was in a carpeted room that looked like the office building from before but didn’t smell as dirty and evil. Maybe they were next door. Ian was lying asleep beside him. They were alone. Mickey’s throat was dry and aching, and as he shifted, Ian woke up with a start.

“Mickey,” he whispered. He sounded relieved. “Thank god.” He sat up to get a better look at Mickey’s face. Mickey just looked at him. “Iggy and Lip are downstairs. We wanted to wait for you, until you…we didn’t want to bury Mandy without you,” Ian paused, wiping at his eyes, “but we didn’t think we could wait any longer. You’ve been out for hours, I didn’t know if you’d ever come back. I’m sorry, Mickey.”

Why was Ian apologizing to him, Mickey thought dully. Mickey was the monster. Mickey deserved to be buried in the ground, not his sister.

“Mickey?” Ian asked. He pressed his face to Mickey’s cheek, even though Mickey tilted away. “Just say something, please.” When Mickey remained silent, Ian started muttering against his temple. “It’s not your fault. It was an accident. It’s not your fault. We all know that.”

Ian’s words made Mickey so mad it was like his brain was on fire. He knew it was his fault. He knew Iggy and Lip were probably going to kill him, and he wanted them to. It was what he deserved, and Ian trying to twist the blame away from him made it difficult to breathe. 

Wildly, he reared up and shoved at Ian, but Ian didn’t fight back, letting Mickey shove him again, and his non-resistance was almost worst than his insistence that Mickey was not at fault, and before he knew what he was doing he was kissing Ian like he wanted to break him in half.

He pushed against him, fists balled up in the material of Ian’s shirt, and he was sure he was hurting the other boy, his knuckles pressing painfully into his sternum. He wanted to Ian to push back, to hurt him. He kissed Ian angrily, teeth banging together, and he wanted, he needed Ian to be rougher. He needed Ian to throw him around, to bruise him until he couldn’t speak or think anymore, until he hurt like he’d hurt Mandy, his brothers, Lip, Ian, even himself.

But Ian kept gentling the contact. Mickey pressed hard and Ian shifted so he was cradling the older boy, and no matter how Mickey tried to make it hurt or make it ugly, Ian sidestepped him, moving to press his lips carefully down the column of Mickey’s neck, tracing the tendon with his tongue before coming back to lick into Mickey’s mouth, breathing softly, tenderly, until Mickey felt like he would die. 

Finally Mickey yanked his mouth away, gasping. Ian stared at him, out of breath too, his lips red and swollen. 

“What’s the plan here, Gallagher?” Mickey demanded harshly. “You trying to fuck me til I forget what I did? Forget that I shot,” he stopped, swallowing painfully because he felt like he was choking, but he forced himself to say it, because not saying it didn’t make it any less real, “that I fucking shot my own fucking sister? You going to heal me with your magic cock?” Mickey felt like he was falling apart, his head aching, and he gripped Ian’s shirt desperately even as he glared at him.

“No, no,” Ian murmured insistently, pulling back just a little, his eyes burning and intense. “I’m not trying to do that. I can’t make you forget.”

Mickey rubbed roughly at his burning nose. “Then what the fuck are you trying to do?”

Ian cradled Mickey’s face in his hand, even though Mickey tried to twist away. “I’m trying, I just want to show you,” he stopped, seeming to bite back his own emotions. He pressed a soft kiss to Mickey’s mouth, then another, and pulled back again. “I just want to show you how important you are to me, no matter what.” Mickey felt his face crumple a little bit, and Ian’s mouth twisted at the sight. “Hey, sh, shhh. Honey, please don’t cry. Please,” he begged, wiping steadily at the tears coursing down the other boy’s cheeks, but Mickey couldn’t stop. Ian pulled at him until his forehead was pressed to Mickey’s. “I love you so much. Please don’t cry.”

Mickey’s entire body jerked at the words. It startled him so much he stopped crying. He was sure Ian had misspoken, but then Ian said it again.

“I love you,” he whispered against Mickey’s mouth. Mickey pressed forward in a rush, swallowing the words in a kiss. He moved swiftly to pull Ian’s hips against his with a grunt, grinding into the sensation and making Ian gasp.

“Wait, you don’t have to—” Ian panted, trying to pull away. “Are you sure you want—”

But Mickey wouldn’t let him slow down, or stop. He was afraid of what would happen if they stopped, and what would happen after it was over. For now, he wanted to live in this moment. He clawed at Ian’s pants, freeing his cock and jerking him off desperately. Ian hardened swiftly, and Mickey stopped to rip off his own pants and boxers, twisting so he was on his hands and knees, his ass facing Ian, his whole body shaking in anticipation, but Ian pulled at his shoulder.

“Need to see you,” Ian muttered. The bridge of his nose and his cheeks were flushed, his eyes unfocused with lust as he rearranged Mickey’s body so he was sprawled below him on the dirty carpet of the office building. He paused to pull Mickey’s clothes the rest of the way off so they were laying skin-to-skin, propping Mickey’s legs over his shoulders. The position made Mickey feel completely overwhelmed, trapped and safe and terrified and protected and so fucking hot for Ian he couldn’t stand it.

“Please,” he gasped. “Please, just get in me. Just fuck me.”

Ian shushed him by kissing him messily as he fumbled behind him to grab one of the packets of lube out of his jean pocket. Mickey’s eyes were squeezed shut, trying to absorb the feeling of Ian on top of him with every fiber of his soul, and he could only hear Ian ripping open the package and squirting lube on his fingers, could only feel Ian leaning back and then penetrating him with one slick digit.

Mickey whined, too far gone to care about the noises he was making as Ian stretched him, adding another finger and curling up at just the right angle that he hit that spot inside of Mickey that made him arch his body up so hard his felt his spine crack.

When Ian finally removed his fingers, Mickey felt so empty, and he was already teary-eyed but losing the sensation of Ian inside him was almost enough to make him lose it, but then Ian slid his cock slowly inside Mickey and Mickey forgot everything, anything, outside of that moment.

Ian gripped Mickey’s knee over one shoulder and wrapped a hand around his neck with the other, caging Mickey in completely with his body. He barely gave Mickey time to adjust before he was thrusting sharply, the force punching out grunts from Mickey with every plunge. Mickey wanted to push back, to kiss Ian, to reach down and jerk himself off, but he could barely move, the pleasure making him completely lethargic.

He wished he could stay here forever, the feel of Ian dragging his thick cock along his inner walls, the sweat dripping off the redhead onto Mickey’s face, Ian’s low voice muttering sex words, love words, nonsense words into Mickey’s ear, where he would never have to deal with the world outside and what he’d done, but then Ian hit right against the bundle of nerves inside Mickey and reached down to run a hand along Mickey’s cock with a firm grip and he knew it couldn’t last.

“God, Mickey,” Ian grunted as Mickey got louder and louder, Ian hitting that spot over and over. “God, Mickey. I love you. I love you, I love you.” His thrusts grew erratic, his voice wrecked. “Love you…love…” And Mickey couldn’t take hearing those words and he came like he was dying, his vision going white then black, pleasure racing all over his skin so sharply it was painful.

Above him, he heard Ian moan long and loud, filling Mickey up and finally slumping over him. Mickey didn’t realize he was crying until Ian began kissing the tears off his face.

“Shh, sh,” Ian whispered, his voice low and soothing. He twisted so he could urge Mickey closer into his chest, their bodies sticky with sweat, but Mickey was shivering uncontrollably.

His mind was fuzzy and he was suddenly so exhausted he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He began to drift to the sound of Ian telling him over and over that he loved him. With the last of his strength, he reached up to press his hand over Ian’s mouth, stemming the words. Ian kissed the palm of his hand but relented, going silent, so that Mickey could finally go to sleep without being forced to listen to the sound of a love he didn’t deserve, because he didn’t know how Ian could love him still, after all this, he didn’t know how anyone could. 

His last thought before the sweet relief of unconsciousness descended was that he hoped he never woke up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a draining and sad chapter to write, but it seemed authentic for the universe I've thrown these poor characters into so I tried to push through. Alas. As always, thanks for your support!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Ian deal with the fallout, and Ian comes to realize he'd do anything to make Mickey feel okay again.

The next morning arrived like a horrible hangover. Ian opened his eyes with a start from another nightmare, panting as the dirty sunlight filtering into his eyes from tattered blinds over smeared windows. Mickey was snoring in his arms, mouth hanging open and drooling a little onto Ian’s shoulder.

For a brief, shining moment, he didn’t remember what had happened the day before as he tried to catch his breath from his dream.

Then it crashed over him like a wave. Mandy staggering and falling to the ground. Mickey making that terrible screaming sound he didn’t think he’d ever forget. Digging into the dry, baked soil in the abandoned lot behind the office building with his bare hands, helping Iggy dig a shallow grave for his sister while Lip sat a few feet away, holding his knees and rocking back and forth silently.

So it really had been real, he thought tonelessly to himself. Everything was still fucked.

He looked down at Mickey, contemplating what to do. He didn’t want to leave him alone in the room, and he didn’t want him to wake up by himself. But he needed to go talk to Iggy and Lip.

Slowly, carefully, he eased Mickey away from him and settled him onto the dirty carpet. Ian found his discarded shirt and laid it over Mickey’s naked chest. He was just in his boxers. Ian could see marks and hickeys on his neck from the night before, and his own knees ached from rug burn. He let himself look at the other boy for a minute. Even in sleep, Mickey looked exhausted. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent.

Just when he was about to leave, Mickey’s eyes opened. His expression was flat.

“Hey, buddy,” Ian said. Mickey just looked at him, not moving or reacting when Ian reached out to wrap a gentle hand around his neck. Ian wanted to ask how he was doing, if he was okay, but that all sounded stupid so instead he just held Mickey’s gaze. They stared at each other, Ian’s face desperate, Mickey’s tired and empty, until Ian remembered the other boys downstairs.

“I need to talk to Iggy and Lip,” he said. It was a tiny movement, but he saw Mickey’s eyes tighten. He rubbed at the tense muscles at the base of Mickey’s skull. “I’ll be right back. Just stay here. It’s okay.”

Mickey didn’t seem convinced, but Ian forced himself to his feet anyway and headed to the floor below, where he’d left Iggy and Lip the last night before joining Mickey upstairs. 

The stairwell was pitch black without windows, and he moved slowly so as not to stumble and break his neck. He pushed open the fire exit, the lobby to this floor also softly illuminated from the early morning sun. He saw Iggy’s figure lying motionless in the corner.

“Iggy,” Ian said softly, coming to crouch beside Mickey’s older brother. Iggy startled awake, throwing a fist, and Ian fell backward to avoid the hit. “Hey, easy, it’s just me.”

Iggy sat up, rubbing his eyes with a vengeance. Ian could tell he’d been crying. He finally leveled his red eyes on Ian. “How is he?” He gestured to the floor above with a jerk of his chin.

Ian exhaled tiredly. “Fucking terrible. How are you?”

“Fucking terrible, too,” Iggy said. Ian sat against the wall beside Iggy, before glancing around and noticing he didn’t see his brother.

“Wait, where’s Lip?” He felt panic rising in his chest, wondering if his brother had split, if he’d lost his best friend and his brother in the space of twenty-four hours.

“I think he’s outside. He was up and pacing all night, I don’t think he slept at all. He was pretty tore up,” Iggy said, with feeling. 

Ian just looked at Iggy. For the first time, he felt like he was really seeing Mickey’s older brother. He had a wide, smooth face and a broad nose that reminded Ian of a Labrador. He looked like Mickey just barely, but his eyes were too open, too soft to really remind Ian too much of his boyfriend. What struck him was how easily he could see every uncomplicated emotion on Iggy’s face. Maybe that was why Ian had never noticed it before, because Iggy felt so simply, even if it was with the intensity and clarity of a wild animal. The pain on his face now was so clear it hurt to look at. Mickey always made fun of Ian for showing how he felt so easily, but Ian didn’t think he’d be able to handle how clearly Iggy broadcast what he was feeling. 

He’d always taken Mickey’s brothers for granted, seeing them as an indistinguishable pack of aggressive bullies. But Iggy had stood by Mickey after what had happened with their father. Iggy had accepted Mickey being gay. Even now, Iggy was worried about his brother, and even seemed to be concerned about Lip. Maybe Ian had been stupid not to pay more attention to Iggy.

So absorbed was he in his study of the older Milkovich that he didn’t notice Iggy was speaking in soft, slow tones at first. 

“You know, I was always jealous of Mickey and Mandy,” Iggy was saying. “They acted like they hated each other, but even when they were little, you could tell they were just two fucking peas in a pod. Mickey would get so mad when Mandy would play with other little kids on the block, he was always a jealous little fucker. So he’d just fight with her until the other kids got bored and left, so that he had her all to himself, the little shit.” Iggy huffed out a laugh, and Ian smiled a little, because he could definitely see Mickey doing that. “Mandy had such a temper, I don’t even think she noticed what he was doing. But when they got done fighting, they’d start playing again, and Mandy would forget about the other kids on the block. So maybe she did know what he was up to.” The pain on Iggy’s face became so strong Ian had to look away. Iggy coughed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. Shit.”

They fell into silence. Ian picked at the soles of his tennis shoes, which had started to separate so they slapped the ground when he walked.

He knew he should be making plans on bringing the supplies they’d found back home. But all morning he'd been thinking of Mickey walking into the neighborhood, amongst people who no longer trusted him, with the weight of what he’d done upon him like a shroud. He’d killed his father. He’d lost their supplies. They hadn't found much more. He’d killed his sister, which wouldn’t stay a secret for long. And he knew from the look in Mickey’s eyes this morning that he wasn’t going to be able to fight for himself yet. He probably wouldn’t even try. Ian was instantly terrified for him, like he was thinking about a newborn chick instead of the ex-juvie criminal he’d been half-afraid of when they’d first started fucking. 

They couldn’t go back. Mickey couldn’t go back, not yet. He knew it with the certainty that he knew his own name.

“I think you and Lip should go back to the neighborhood without us,” Ian said after while. Iggy started to protest, but Ian spoke over him. “Just for now.”

He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. Man, he felt tired. Or what tired feels like when you’ve just slept but your body still thinks it’s an even better idea to lie down and sleep again for a million years.

Iggy was watching him uncertainly. “I don’t know about splitting up,” he said. “That sounds pretty fucking stupid to me.”

Ian shrugged. He’d also seen horror movies, and objectively maybe it was a stupid idea, but now that he’d said it, it sounded fucking perfect. He was starting to understand the tense, itchy feeling that might make a person feel like he or she would be better off on their fucking own for a minute.

He headed toward the stairs to go outside and find Lip, leaving Iggy looking worried behind him. 

Outside, the sun was baking the earth. Ian started sweating immediately, and he noticed he was really starting to fucking smell. He headed behind the building to the empty lot where they’d buried Mandy. The thought made him feel dizzy. This was real. This was really happening. Or it had happened, and now they were stuck in the ongoing waking nightmare of After.

Like he’d expected, Lip was sitting at the pile of overturned earth they’d covered Mandy’s body with. His arms were wrapped around his knees. He wasn’t rocking anymore, instead sitting so still Ian thought maybe he was asleep.

“Hey,” Ian called out softly. Lip didn’t turn around. When Ian knelt down beside him, he saw Lip’s eyes were closed, but he was pretty sure he was awake. He looked ill.

Ian wanted to comfort his brother. Looking at him now was like looking at a shell of a person. The day before, he’d been so shocked Ian had worried he might have to stop him from hurting himself. Now he seemed to have withdrawn into himself. Ian wanted to comfort him, but he felt the pull to return to Mickey, to protect Mickey, growing stronger the longer he was away.

Instead, Ian waited for Lip to finally open his eyes. He didn’t look at Ian, kept his gaze trained on the dirt ahead of him, but it was enough.

“You and Iggy should go back,” Ian said. “Take the food we found. Me and Mickey will keep looking for more.” He heard his voice go hard. “Try to give Fiona and the kids, and Kev and V, as much as you can. I don’t think there’s enough to go around.”

He knew it was fucked up, to actively voice his desire to save the people he loved rather than the larger neighborhood he’d been helping to protect with Mickey, but he was becoming hardened to the emotion by now.

“You’re not coming with?” Lip asked, his voice dead. 

“I’m going to stay with Mickey,” Ian said.

“So that’s it. You’re all fucking fired up one minute to go save the family from some mystery premonition you won’t tell any of us about, and now it’s just like, fuck you guys, I’m going to go play house with my boyfriend?” Lip said. He sounded like he was trying to get worked up but he’d forgotten how, his voice flat, his eyes never leaving Mandy’s grave in front of him.

Hearing Fiona’s name made Ian's heart lurch. He was still panicked about Fiona. He’d dreamt about her again the night before, barefoot and dressed in ragged, bloody clothes, holding her hand over a gash on her face and staring at Ian from across a set of railroad tracks. “Ian, come home,” she’d said, right before a train came and smashed into her. Then he’d woken up panting, remembering everything with Mandy from the day before.

“I am worried about Fiona,” Ian said, carefully. “I think something might be wrong. That’s why I think you and Iggy should go back now, rather than us all staying gone longer to find food.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Lip said.

Ian coughed, rubbing his nose uncomfortably. The sun was searing the back of his neck, and he knew he’d be burnt to shit by the end of the day. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“This isn’t strategic, you just want to stay with Mickey,” Lip said, lip curling slightly. 

Although Ian opened his mouth to argue, he shut it again. Lip was right. Lip had always been smarter than him. If Ian stumbled upon food, it would be a bonus and a surprise, because he didn’t plan to look for anything beyond what he and Mickey might need to survive. Right now, he was so desperately worried about Mickey, all he wanted to do was hole up somewhere and wrap the other boy in his arms like a cocoon until….until what. He wasn’t sure until what. But the impulse was so strong that he knew he would follow it even over his desire to go home and confirm to himself that his family was okay.

It was a sobering thought, one that made him feel a little shaky. Lip was right, this was bullshit. How could he be considering not going home to check on his family? Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly from yesterday either, and then he rolled his eyes internally because of course he wasn’t, he just didn’t have time to dwell on it. He needed to keep it together. He needed to be the calm one everyone needed right now, or at least that Mickey needed.

“I’m sorry, Lip,” Ian said. “He can’t go back right now, and I can’t leave him.”

“Good,” Lip replied. “I don’t want you guys there. I don’t want you in the neighborhood.”

Ian tried to reason with him, his voice pained. “Lip, you know it was an accident. Mickey didn’t mean to. That could have been any of us. It was an accident,” he said again.

For the first time, Lip turned so he was looking at Ian, and Ian saw that his eyes were burning with anger, even through the wetness of tears. “You fucking think…I know it was a fucking accident. You think I fucking blame….fuck you. Just, fuck you, Ian.”

Ian was so confused. He reached out to touch Lip, to attempt to somehow soothe his big brother who was so obviously hurting, but Lip yanked his shoulder away and hauled himself to his feet. Ian stood up too, watching Lip warily.

“I don’t want you there because I can’t be around you,” Lip said. His words were starting to lose that deadened quality. “I can’t….I can’t look at you, together. I can’t see you.” He was gasping a little as he started to pace restlessly. “I can’t see you two, watch you be together, and know that Mandy’s….know that she’s…god, fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fucking shit.” Lip held his head in his hands as he started crying in earnest now, squatting so he was low to the ground and curled up as small as he could go.

Ian felt wetness on his cheeks but he couldn’t feel himself crying. He remembered how Lip had said he'd actually been jealous of Ian and Mickey, and how surprised Ian had felt overhearing that confession. Now he just felt numb. Mechanically, he reached out again to touch his brother but Lip stood up sharply. He rubbed frantically at his eyes and face.

“I’ll go get Iggy. We’ll get the fuck out of here as soon as we can,” Lip said. He stalked inside the building, brushing past Ian with enough force to knock him off balance so he stumbled. Ian watched him go, reflecting that Lip seemed more mad at Ian than he seemed to be at Mickey. It was like he blamed Ian, for what he had no idea. 

Before he followed Lip inside, he turned to look back down at where Mandy was buried. He wished for the comfort of unreality to descend upon him. He thought it would be so much easier if things felt more surreal, dreamlike, but it didn’t. Everything felt crushingly, piercingly clear and intense, like it was in high definition.

He was saying goodbye to the best friend he ever had.

He thought about Mandy offering to be his beard in school. He thought about Mandy confiding in him about her dad, and what that monster did to her. He thought about Mandy listening to him pine after her brother, before she knew it was her brother, patiently letting Ian dissect every aspect of the relationship over and over. He thought of Mandy’s laugh, sharp and contagious and a little scary sometimes. He thought of how happy, how hopeful, she had made Lip look, even just for a day. He thought of her eyes, of her smile. Her fierce loyalty and her fearlessness and her vulnerability that had always made his heart break gently for her all the time. 

It seemed suddenly incredibly important for him to run through every memory of her in his head on a reel.

I love you, he thought, and I promise I'll take care of Mickey, sending the message out into the universe, hoping Mandy got it somehow. Then he turned around and went inside after Lip.

When he reached the second floor, he saw Mickey sitting near Iggy, both against the wall with several feet of space between them. They weren’t speaking. Lip was pacing agitatedly across the room.

Ian came over and knelt in front of Mickey, putting his hands on his shoulders. “Mickey,” he said. Mickey looked at Ian’s shoulder, then up into his eyes.

“Gallagher,” Mickey echoed. He didn’t sound like himself, but Ian wasn’t surprised by that.

“Iggy and Lip are going back to neighborhood. You and me are going to stay back.”

Usually, Ian could have expected a long, involved discussion that morphed into an argument that evolved into a screaming match, because hanging back seemed like the last thing Mickey would want to do normally. Today though, he shrugged.

“Okay,” Mickey said.

Iggy tried to talk Ian out of it for a little bit longer. It wasn’t safe just the two of them, he said. They might need their help at the neighborhood. How would they communicate, tell them if something had indeed gone wrong back at home?

Ian deflected, because he didn’t really have a rebuttal. Instead, he could only promise they would come home in a week. Iggy only relented when he looked and saw the way Mickey hovered beside Ian, mostly silent as his gaze fluttered over the landscape. He seemed so vulnerable, so unlike himself. Ian was struck with how Mandy would probably want to do the same thing, hole up to protect her brother. She'd always been drawn to protect scared, broken things. He couldn't know for sure, but he thought maybe Iggy was thinking the same thing.

“Take care of him,” Iggy said finally, under his breath, but Ian was pretty sure Mickey heard.

They found a wheelbarrow with a half-busted handle in the lot one block over. They packed the supplies they found in the other basement into it, leaving one bag of rice and bread and canned food for Ian and Mickey, and covered the rest with a moldy tarp. Lip didn’t even look at Ian before he left, still holding his baffling, fiery anger against Ian, but he stood before Mickey for a while, like he was trying to say something. In the end, he and Mickey held each other’s eyes for a second, and then Lip turned to leave. 

It was nerve-wrecking watching the two boys walk away, lugging the wheelbarrow between them. Ian got a sense for how Mickey felt, back in the beginning, when the very thought of people scattering from the neighborhood seemed to fill him with stress. As Iggy and Lip receded into the distance, Ian was overwhelmed with a sense of powerlessness. He had to remind himself that Iggy and Lip had guns, they could take care of themselves. He would see them in a week. Until then, they could take care of the neighborhood.

He turned to Mickey, who was watching him. “Thanks for not making me go back,” Mickey said finally. “I don’t know…I can’t. Not ever.”

“Yes you can,” Ian said. “Just not yet.” 

Mickey didn’t argue with the correction, which Ian took as a good sign.

He gave Mickey some privacy to head to the back to where Mandy was buried. Mickey was back in ten minutes, his face ruined, but Ian didn’t ask him any questions. Instead, Ian led the way, heading east toward the water. 

Ian was especially jittery walking through the city now, after being chased by that zombie hoard the day before, so he kept them in the shadows, ducking into alleyways every few blocks and zigzagging up and down cross streets in an attempt to make it as difficult as possible for them to be followed. They didn't see anybody, alive or dead, but Ian wasn't sure if that was because of the care he was taking in their route or something else. Mickey followed mutely, his face blank. He refused to carry a gun, so Ian had four assault rifles slung around his neck and two handguns stuffed into his waistband. They were heavy as fuck, and the nylon straps irritated his skin, but he didn’t complain. He wanted to carry whatever burden Mickey would give him, even if it was just guns.

As they walked, Ian couldn’t help but reflect on what was coming to feel like a pretty hare-brained scheme.

It was only a week. A week wasn’t enough to get over a tragedy. A week wasn’t enough to get over your favorite character dying suddenly on a TV show, so Ian wasn’t so deluded that he thought he was healing Mickey by giving him seven days to himself. Well, to himself and Ian.

But he didn’t know what else to do, and when he looked at Mickey all he saw was a big, open, tender, exposed bruise where the older boy used to be. So he decided that if nothing else, he could give him a little time to at least begin to develop a scab.

He found a condo building that overlooked Lake Michigan. He’d been to a party there with Ned once, had remembered it being glamorous and fun, but most of all, that the condos had solid doors and windows that looked out onto the beach. He had to kick down the glass in the front security door in the lobby, but it was half-shattered anyway and once inside, it looked like someone, or a lot of someones, had already ransacked the place. They stepped over broken class and debris to get to the stairwell. 

Once again, Ian was struck by how empty everything was. He wanted to know where the rest of the humans were. Had everyone who survived just fled the city? Why were there so few people left? He thought maybe they were hiding in the other condos, but he heard no sounds of life as they walked the hallways.

On the third floor, Ian finally found a condo with its door hanging open. There was no one inside, the furniture partially destroyed. The bedroom only had a box spring hanging precariously off the bed frame. He brought Mickey inside and closed the door, making peanut butter sandwiches on dry, stale bread for the two of them, which Mickey ate while letting Ian put an arm around them.

Over the next week, Ian let Mickey set the pace. Mickey didn’t talk much, but he did speak a little when Ian asked him questions. They didn't talk about Mandy, or the neighborhood. On the second day, they went to the beach and swam in the frigid lake water, both washing their bodies and hair with a plastic bottle of peach-scented body wash they’d found in the condo. On the third day, Ian found a box of stale Cap’n Crunch cereal in the convenience store under the condo building, and Mickey almost smiled as they devoured it. They had sex every night, plowing through the lube they’d found at the club heedlessly, both too desperate to ration it out. Mickey was unusually silent as they fucked now, so intense like he wanted to lose himself inside of Ian every time. Ian had to be careful not to hold him too tight, not to press too hard, in his desperation to wrap Mickey inside of himself.

It felt like a week outside of time, and for once Ian felt cautiously impressed by their good luck. He watched the skyline from the condo window, and occasionally he saw zombies darting birdlike on the streets below. He never saw humans. If he let himself forget about everything for a moment, it felt like he and Mickey were the only ones on earth. He could almost pretend like they lived in that condo, like they had normal lives and the entire world wasn’t completely fucked up.

On the evening of the sixth day, they were sitting outside on the patio of the condo, Mickey quietly listening to Ian ramble. Ian was on a tangent, thinking of how Fiona used to cheer up all the kids when they were little. He’d looked at Mickey’s face and found himself wishing he was as good as Fiona at comforting sad people, even when she was often the saddest person Ian thought he knew.

“When I was sad when I was little, she always let me watch The Sound Of Music, you know that musical with the nanny and the Austrian kids and the Nazis?” Ian felt a corner of his mouth lift at the memory. “Damn, she was good with ways to cheer me up, but that movie was her greatest trick. It always made everything better, no question.”

He was overwhelmed with how much he suddenly missed Fiona. He missed letting Fiona be in charge. He wished she were here to make this impossible situation better, like she’d always been able to in the past.

Maybe Ian’s problems had never been that complicated when he was little, but Fiona’s ability to make him happy when he was sad had made her seem like a minor deity to him. If he had a bad day at school, if Lip was teasing him too hard or when Monica or Frank did something so breathtakingly careless and forgetful as parents it made Ian feel like he’d got the wind knocked out of him, Fiona had sat him down in front of the old TV and popped in a VHS of The Sound Of Music. 

He loved the entire movie, unequivocally, start to finish, but his favorite part was the scene when Julie Andrews sang about her favorite things to make all those Austrian kids calm the hell down during the thunderstorm. Sometimes when he had the living room to himself he would stop and rewind the scene over and over until it felt like he was in the movie, living as a Von Trapp himself. 

“I think I watched that movie every time I was upset until I was way too old for it. The last time was….” He squinted, trying to remember. “Shit. Eighth grade. Man, I wish we could watch it right now.”

He went silent, lost in his own thoughts, and didn’t notice he was singing the song about favorite things under his breath until he tried to hit a high note and his voice cracked a little, so he switched to humming.

When Mickey spoke of his own volition, Ian was so startled that he practically choked on the song he was humming and ended up coughing a bit. “That,” Mickey said, slowly, his voice rusty and deep from disuse, “might be the gayest thing I’ve ever heard, in my entire life, ever.”

Ian watched him, alert. Mickey’s face was blank at first, but Ian could see an expression working its way slowly over the planes of his eyes and nose and mouth, like a mountaineer scaling a peak. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing until Mickey’s shoulders started to shake.

He thought maybe Mickey was crying, but then the laughter started peeling off, loud and out of control. Ian grinned too, then started giggling, since Mickey wasn’t wrong, it was definitely one of his gayer admissions. After a while the laughter turned to gasping and the gasping turned to sobs and he really was crying this time, and Mickey let Ian wrap an arm around his shoulders and hug him a little too tight.

“Goddamnit,” Mickey muttered after a while, his voice watery. Ian felt an unbelievable wave of relief wash over him at the sound. At least he sounded like himself again, if just impossibly sad.

“You ever seen Sound Of Music?” Ian asked, trying to draw him out.

Mickey sighed, relaxing against Ian. “Negative.”

“You’re missing out, let me tell you. That was the shit in the Gallagher household, circa 1996 to 2004 or something.”

“Bullshit the last time you watched it was eighth grade,” Mickey said after a beat.

Ian smiled into his hair at the familiar scoffing tone. “Fine, cards on the table. I think I watched it with Debbie in April. Eighth grade was the last time I watched it by myself, though. After that I just had to lurk around waiting for the younger kids to pop it in.”

Mickey was looking at him solemnly, like Ian hadn’t just admitted that his favorite movie was a fucking musical, and Ian leaned forward and kissed him softly. Mickey shifted so he was almost in Ian’s lap, and Ian wrapped his arms around him, bringing him close enough that they were chest to chest. They kissed until Ian lost his breath, until Mickey was moaning, but just softly. They kissed until the sun set and Ian finally pulled back to rest his head against Mickey’s, both boys panting slightly.

“I love you,” Ian whispered.

Mickey didn’t reply, but Ian didn’t need him to. He just let Mickey nestle in closer to his side. They just sat, comfortable in the silence.

Ian hoped he was helping, hoped that somehow he was helping to numb the horror of that day in the basement. But a larger part of him knew there was nothing he could really do. 

He knew loss was something you didn’t get over for a long time, if you got over it at all. It just sat inside you, so every day you faced, you faced it with the knowledge of this thing in your chest, that the person was gone, that you were getting older and they were staying forever the same age, moving farther away from you on the poles of time. Mickey was never going to get over this, just like Ian wasn’t going to get over it either, but Mickey had the added weight of his own harrowing guilt. Ian couldn’t imagine what that kind of weight was like. 

All Ian knew was that he was filled with a violent need to protect Mickey. He'd do anything to make him okay again. He tightened his grip on the other boy, hands shaking slightly as he tried not to squeeze too hard in his own intensity.

On the morning of the seventh day, Ian woke up from another nightmare, this one indistinct in his memory as he sat up gasping on the box spring, except that it had been more violent than the others, and this time Fiona had been joined by Carl and Debbie. These night terrors were getting fucking out of control, but he also couldn’t escape the taut panicky feeling they left him with.

“Ian?” Mickey asked from beside him, awakened by Ian’s jerking motion.

Ian glanced down at Mickey. Mickey was curled around Ian's hip, eyes cloudy from sleep. Ian didn’t want to ask, but he knew they couldn’t really take any more time. “Do you think you’re ready to go back?”

Mickey seemed to consider. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready, so we might as well just fucking get it over with,” he said, and Ian actually smirked, because it was an actual Mickey response. He wasn’t okay, but he wasn’t gone either, and Ian thought that was all he could really ask for.

Which was a blessing in its own way, he supposed, because they couldn't put it off any longer. They were going home to the South Side today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for the kudos and comments and hits. Y'all make my day, I'm telling you, and writing this fic's making grad school a hell of a lot easier to plow through, let me tell you. :)


	14. Chapter 14

As they walked the deserted streets of Chicago, Mickey kept sneaking glances up at Ian. He couldn’t stop staring at him. The sun was reflecting off his red hair, burning his freckled nose pink, his eyes steady, scanning the street for danger as he kept himself so close to Mickey they kept bumping shoulders. Like he didn’t think Mickey could take care of himself. Guiltily, Mickey was grateful. He’d never felt this fucking weak before and he knew he needed to snap out of it, but maybe just not yet.

The last week had been a lot like an extended black out. Memories burst through. Swimming in the lake with Ian, sleeping on the hard box spring in the condo beside one another, listening to the other boy fill the silence with rambling, fucking long and slow against the counter in the kitchen and on the floor in the living room and against the sliding door on the patio.

Mickey had stopped thinking about killing himself by the second day. He felt deeply ashamed at his inability to even carry out that small bit of justice himself.

But he looked at Ian, like he’d been looking at him all morning since they’d left the condo to head back to the South Side, and he knew he couldn’t. He owed the other boy too much. He needed Ian too much to check out.

And a tiny, selfish, horrible part of himself was so glad that he had Gallagher to use as an excuse, because he didn’t want to give up. He should probably want to. If he were a truly honorable person, he’d walk into the lake until he couldn’t touch ground and just let the water drag him under. But he wanted to live. He wanted to survive. 

All that didn’t mean he wasn’t so terrified about going back to the neighborhood that his hands were shaking. He couldn’t imagine facing his brothers. He couldn’t picture looking at the faces of everyone in the neighborhood silently judging him. 

He’d promised to take care of all those poor fuckers in the neighborhood, and he’d prided himself on his ability to take care of his family, what was left of it, as well. So of course he’d destroyed the neighborhood’s hopes for survival and killed two members of his own family in less than a week. He almost gagged on the bile rising in his throat. What a perfect fucking metaphor for his life.

Mickey shook his head, a little grimly, because if he wasn’t going to kill himself he needed to man the fuck up. Enough moping. For fuck’s sake, he tried to rally himself, he was the child of an abusive, broken home, repressing his feelings until he felt numb should come second fucking nature at this point. At least he’d mastered compartmentalization, because every time he thought about Mandy he started to have a panic attack, so he stopped thinking about her. He set that aside for sometime in the future, like some kind of reckoning. It made him sick to think about.

Beside him, Ian raised both arms above his head to stretch. The guns hanging around his neck jangled at the movement like a necklace for Rambo. Mickey’s fingers twitched, the offer to carry a few of them himself on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed them, because he wasn’t ready to touch a gun yet.

Instead Ian spoke. “I just don’t understand where everybody went,” he said.

“You mean, aside from the zombie apocalypse thing?” Mickey asked, not because he necessarily felt like being snarky but because Ian seemed to enjoy that it was coming back a little.

The taller boy smirked at him. “Well, kind of. I mean, I know we were a little isolated in the beginning there, but don’t you think we’d know if there was like some kind of mass exodus? It’s been almost two weeks since we left the neighborhood. All of Chicago can’t have been turned or killed.”

Mickey watched Ian fall silent, musing over the fate of nearly three million people. All Mickey could do was shrug. For the first time since the zombies, he thought he needed to stop worrying so much about other people.

Still, he couldn’t help but offer one thought. “Who knows, man. Obviously we mad underestimated the zombies in the first place. Maybe they always had the advantage.”

“Okay, but where are all the zombies then? If they’re so fucking talented at this end-of-the-world shit?” Ian said. He glanced around, then pulled on Mickey’s elbow to bring him around a corner. “Speaking of, think it’s bout time to do a lap and throw off any tail we might have.”

They went around the block, then zig-zagged east before cutting back down south again. Mickey was skeptical that the movement would shake any but the most simpleminded of zombie stalkers, but he and Ian both seemed to feel more comfortable being proactive.

Mickey noticed the landscape start to become more familiar, the street numbers getting higher as the buildings and houses becoming slightly more rundown and the empty lots more numerous. Now that Ian had brought it up, he didn’t know why they weren’t seeing any zombies. He felt irrationally irritated that they had to think so much about the fucking zombies at all. He wished more than anything he could wake up and have the world be normal again. Have everything go back to normal, he thought bleakly.

They were only about a half mile away from the Back of the Yards now, from that corner near Canaryville where’d they’d built their fortress, thinking that it would keep them safe, like fucking idiots. Mickey was feeling jittery, and didn’t notice Ian was moving until he’d pulled Mickey behind a building into an alley.

“Hey, what—” Mickey started, but Ian crowded him against the wall and pressed his face into Mickey’s hair, cutting the older boy off. The guns hanging from Ian’s neck got in the way and Ian slid a few off and tossed the rest further back on his neck impatiently.

Mickey let him nuzzle him for a little bit. He didn’t know what had gotten into Ian, who was so eager to get home and check on his family. He was keyed up, and Mickey waited for him to speak.

Ian being Ian, the silence didn’t last for long. “I have a feeling things are really bad at home,” he started, rushing on as though he sensed Mickey’s protest (he still hadn’t explained to the other boy where the hell these freaky predictions were coming from and the lack of information was actually more worrying to Mickey than if Ian had explained them completely), “and I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey said. He fisted Ian’s shirt tightly, not sure what to say to comfort the other boy. He’d always been bad at this, and he was especially rusty now, after the numbing blankness of the last week. 

Ian just shook his head, seeming frustrated with himself. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say, I just need to…” he trailed off. He brought a hand to Mickey’s neck and played with the hair curling at his nape, the motion idle but still making Mickey squirm until Ian spoke again. “Remember the last time you got out of juvie?”

Well, that was out of the blue. Mickey squinted in thought. “What was that, June?” But he couldn’t really remember what month it was now. Was it still August? He didn’t know.

“Remember how we fucked under the bleachers?” Ian pulled back to grin, watching Mickey’s expression.

“After you got done fucking that ROTC queer, yeah, I remember,” Mickey said sourly, but Ian just laughed.

“I keep thinking about how you wanted to tell me you missed me, but you couldn’t,” he said.

Mickey gave token resistance. “Who the fuck said I missed you?”

Ian gave him a shove. “You wanted to say that you missed me, but instead you came out with some bullshit about how you missed being fucked or some shit.” 

Mickey shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Man, he was an asshole sometimes, but this wasn’t news. “Yeah, what’s your fucking point?”

“My point is, I’m glad things aren’t like that anymore,” Ian said. He was staring at Mickey so intently that it he could feel a blush creeping up his cheeks.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he scoffed, just to have something to say, because he couldn’t really read Ian’s mood. 

“And I know this is a weird time to declare this, and it’s kind of a weird thing to even say in the first place, but it’d be stupid not to. I mean, you never know what’s going to happen—”

“Jesus christ Ian, fucking spit it out,” Mickey interrupted. 

Instead Ian leaned forward and kissed him, tongue licking the seal of Mickey’s lips until he gasped and Ian swept his tongue inside tasting him and nibbling on his lower lip and sucking on the top lip, pulling Mickey closer to him so his leg pressed between Mickey’s knees. He urged the shorter boy forward so that Mickey was riding his thigh, hands moving to grip his waist so he could grind a little harder. Mickey was moaning before he could stop himself, wrapping his arms around Ian’s shoulders and kissing him back until he’d forgot they’d even been having a conversation a minute ago.

But Ian pulled back, Mickey chasing him with his lips, eyes closed, and Ian gave him one shorter kiss before straightening slightly. Mickey opened his eyes, frowning, to find Ian grinning softly at him.

“You’re being really weird today,” Mickey muttered.

“And you’re really cute,” Ian said, and Mickey couldn’t help but look at him in horror a little, because who was this weirdo, but then Ian sobered. “It’s just, I meant what I said the other night. You’re important to me. I wanted you to know that I meant it, that I still mean it, it wasn’t just heat of the moment stuff. And in case I don’t get to say it again,” he swallowed, going suddenly so serious Mickey nearly felt a chill, “if the one good thing to come out of this is that I got to have you, for real, I’m glad.”

“Goddamnit, Ian,” Mickey said. His eyes were tearing, and they were about to be in their own neighborhood again in less than a mile, and he just wanted to fucking hug the other boy, not even fuck or kiss, just hug him. Because how had he gotten so lucky. How had he gotten this person. He didn’t understand. Ian hadn’t said he loved Mickey again since That Night, but this was almost better.

Even the warmth of Ian's words didn't distract from the bleakness of the situation. Mickey wasn’t so fucking stupid that he thought Ian was just being dramatic. Things were seriously fucked.

Even so, for once Mickey thought he might be about to tell Ian he loved him, but Ian stepped back before he had a chance, releasing Mickey and giving him a chance to wipe his face. 

“If you’re done fucking babbling, can we get going now?” Mickey said. He sounded gruff, but he couldn’t look Ian in the eye because he thought it might blind him.

“You got it,” Ian said, and he no longer looked sweet and soft like a minute ago, his face tightening.

They left the alley and started down the street. They smelled smoke as they got closer. Without looking at him, Ian pulled a handgun from his back pocket and held it to Mickey, who took it reluctantly. They didn’t have time for him to be a girl about it. When they were a block away, they were running. The smoke was getting thicker and Mickey felt like they’d gone back in time to the night of the fire. 

After over a week of listening to Ian insist that the neighborhood was in trouble, it was almost anticlimactic to turn the corner and see the north barricade rent down the middle, a huge hole leaving it completely broken.

It smelled like zombies, that thick, rotting stench that you could almost taste. Mickey could smell them, but he didn’t see any, not as Ian led the way through the hole in the barricade and into the neighborhood again.

On the other side, the smoke was thick and made it difficult to see clearly. It took Mickey a little to realize that it looked like a patrol had tried to set up the misdirection strategy they’d planned before Mickey and Ian and Lip and Iggy had taken off to look for supplies. There were canisters of accelerant stacked against the side of the barricade on the inside. Best guess, they must have been unable to extinguish the fire in time to distract the zombies to a new barricade.

He wished they would’ve waited for him and Lip to get back, because Lip had had a handful of strategies for putting the fires out and moving them to the next barricade. He wished they’d waited for him to get back, so he could’ve directed the whole thing. Looking at the smoky remains of the barricade, Mickey was hit with the increasingly familiar wallop of failure, deep in the pit of his stomach.

Seeming to sense his dismay, Ian kept a hand on his shoulder and steered him to the side of the street, keeping him in the shadows.

They made their way quickly through the neighborhood, passing the Alibi, which stood silent and empty in the smoke. The entire neighborhood seemed empty, but there was something in the air. Mickey could feel it, could feel the way it made the hairs on his arms and legs stand up straight. Ian didn’t seem to feel it, in his rush to find his family.

They tried to Milkovich house first. It was deserted. No sign of Mickey’s brothers or his uncles or the Russian women his dad had brought back; no sign of the Gallagher kids either. At the end of the block, they turned toward where the Gallagher house used to be. Ian ran up the stairs to Kev and V’s house, calling out the names of his siblings.

Mickey ran after him, grabbing his arm. “Jesus, Ian, keep your voice down!” he hissed.

“Fiona!” Ian called again, ignoring Mickey. “Lip! Are you guys in here?”

The silence seemed to swallow the echo of Ian’s call.

He turned to Mickey. “They’re not here,” he said, a little unnecessarily. “Why aren’t they here?”

Mickey was at a slight loss. He supposed he’d just assumed, pretty naively in retrospect, that Iggy and Lip would make it back to neighborhood with enough supplies to tide everyone over, and they’d hole up and wait for Mickey and Ian to return, and when they got back they’d hatch a new plan. It was a pretty fuzzy prediction, but Mickey was pretty drained. Faced with this new, unexpected reality, the neighborhood empty and smoking, at least one of the barricades broken, he was at a loss. He didn’t know where everyone had gone.

But the only obvious thing about anything was that, fled they had. They’d all gone somewhere. There were no bodies, only the stench of zombies everywhere. Everyone in the neighborhood had left, the way everyone else in the city seemed to have left, part of some massive synchronized movement no one had bothered to tell Mickey or Ian about.

“Do you think Lip and Iggy made it back?” Ian asked.

Mickey swallowed, thinking about his quiet, tough brother, and about Lip and his cocky smartass mouth, and he needed to believe they had. “I think so,” he said.

Ian didn’t seem convinced, but he let Mickey lead him to the door. Mickey’s mind was turning over, he was trying to think of what to do next. If Ian’s family and Kev and Veronica and Mickey’s brothers had left the city, that was where they needed to go too, then. But where outside the city had they gone?

He was deep in these thoughts until he hit the porch, Ian at his side, and saw the zombies out front.

Mickey actually felt himself sigh. “Not again,” he muttered. Because as a gust of wind blew the smoke away, the hoard of zombies on the street in front of the house became clearer, staring the way the hoard outside the Fairy Tail had stared. Except there were at least twice as more now, more than Ian and Mickey could hope to shoot with two dozen automatic weapons each.

How did this keep happening, he wondered dully. Could he not, for once in his goddamn life, catch a motherfucking break already? The answer, as the zombies stared at them, waiting, appeared to be: not today.

The zombies didn’t seem to see Mickey and Ian the way Mickey and Ian could see them. The boys were staring at the zombie hoard wide-eyed, gazes darting from face to undead face, but the zombies stared back at them the way a flock of birds stares, not so much at you as through you.

The hoard in front of them seemed to move as one unit, fluidly surrounding the humans before them and forcing them down off the porch, moving closer as Mickey and Ian moved warily up the street, their shoulders pressed together, looking around wildly as they waited to be completely surrounded. But it didn’t happen, not at first. 

It was almost as though the zombies were herding them. Like they wanted to move them more than they wanted to eat them. And that was the weirdest thing Mickey had ever considered in his entire life.

Some deep part of Mickey’s hindbrain seemed to vaguely understand. He and Ian were in their territory. They were invading some place they were not welcome. They wanted them gone.

Then the herding wasn’t quite so gentle anymore, as though the zombies were frustrated with their slow pace. Several creatures in front began to lunge and snap, and Mickey felt the tide beginning to turn, the tension mounting, and he acted. Grabbing Ian’s arm, he turned and started to run. Ian shrugged out of the extra guns at his neck and sprinted beside him.

It felt exactly the same and completely different from being chased from the club in Boystown. The zombies were incredibly fast, and Mickey was silently grateful that he’d been forced to quit smoking when the cigarettes ran out because fuck, no way his smokers lung would have let him move this fast before. He was terrified, gasping and panting and wincing at the pain in his muscles as he pushed himself faster.

But this time, it felt like they were running toward a finish line. On the other end of the neighborhood, they came upon the south barricade, smoking but still intact. Without pausing, they both scrambled up and over, hearing the zombies stumble to keep up, but zombies always had been shit at climbing, so Mickey and Ian beat them over. 

Dropping to the other side, Mickey heard the zombies actually crawling after them, but at least they had a head start. They were chased for a few more miles. Mickey lost track of time, of distance, of anything besides making sure he kept pace with Ian and trying to keep his heart from exploding.

He didn’t know when the zombies started falling back. Probably around the time they reached the Eisenhower Expressway. When he saw the sign for the onramp, he was fucking amazed. They must’ve run at least two miles, cutting up and around neighborhoods. Why were the zombies stopping? Were they losing interest, or was getting them this far out of the city their original goal?

He didn’t pause to consider, just shoved Ian toward a house on the corner. 

Ian followed his lead. He was panting too, but not as hard as Mickey, the shithead. They both needed to rest, though. Maybe the house had water. They made their way up the porch, Mickey pausing to scan the street. The zombies were gone. Even the air seemed to smell less like rot. 

“What the hell,” he panted weakly, but he didn’t dwell. Instead he turned to join Ian, kicking the door so it gave free of its hinges, letting them inside.

The door slammed against the wall as Mickey and Ian clambered into the house. Movement caught Mickey’s eye, and he turned to see they’d walked in on a zombie. 

God knew what it was doing by itself inside the house, but Mickey and Ian yelped in shock at the sight, the zombie made a piercing snarling startled noise, and then it struck.

Until the end of his life, Mickey would swear up and down that the zombie bit Ian out of surprise. The creature seemed to attack Ian on instinct, latching onto his wrist like it was just the closest thing to its face, not because it was rabid. It clamped down, Ian yelled, then the zombie detached its mouth. It actually reared back, looking up at Ian, and if Mickey hadn’t been busy fumbling for his gun, he might have marveled how at that moment, the zombie looked almost human.

But he was already unloading the clip in his gun into the zombie, the force of the bullets knocking the creature backwards and into the kitchen. He didn’t stop firing until the fucker lay still, then he threw his gun aside and scrambled to Ian.

Ian was against the couch, cradling his right arm to his chest, staring at it with wide eyes, panting shallowly. The deep gouge of the bite had ripped through most of his tendons and exposed the bone at his wrist. He looked up at Mickey, his face going white.

“Jesus christ, jesus, jesus,” Mickey was gasping, but as he spoke he yanked off his belt and wrapped it around Ian’s arm right below his elbow, yanking it as tight as it would go, hoping that would buy them time.

For a brief moment, they both stared at the wound in identical shock, at the obvious shape of teeth marks that had torn through Ian’s flesh. 

“Mickey, just shoot me,” Ian begged, grabbing at Mickey’s shirt desperately. “Please, fucking shoot me. I don’t want to be a zombie. I can’t be a zombie.”

Mickey hadn’t seen many people get turned, and even then it hadn’t exactly been up close. He knew there were seizures. He knew it took maybe two minutes tops. Lip had once shared a theory that the zombie virus must be able to replicate incredibly quickly to induce a full-on rabid state, but Mickey hadn’t really been listening because Lip was annoying and now he could only sit there, watching Ian panic with no idea how to stop it.

“I don’t want to be a zombie, Mickey. I don’t want to be a zombie, I don’t want to be zombie.” 

He felt crazed, listening to Ian repeat himself over and over. Finally Mickey threw a hand over the other boy’s mouth. “Quiet, you asshole, goddamnit,” he said, even as he cradled the other boy’s face with his other hand, starting to cry himself.

Ian’s face crumpled. “Please, don’t let me turn, man. Please, Mickey.”

Mickey pressed his forehead to Ian’s, apologetic and miserable. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shoot the kid.

“I don’t think I have it in me to kill my dad, my sister and my boyfriend, all in one summer,” he said shakily, trying to stall while he furiously ran through options in his head. 

Ian let out a weak laugh, his skin pale and clammy. “Did you just call me…your boyfriend?”

Mickey let out a wet noise, not a laugh so much as a sound of misery. “Is that seriously the only fucking thing you got from that?”

“I’m just glad I got to hear it, before—” Ian said, starting to sound dazed, but Mickey cut him off.

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Don’t say that.” He set Ian gently away from him and ran into the kitchen.

The kitchen was a mess. It had been ransacked, chairs tossed over with pots and pans littering the floor. Mickey threw open cabinets, yanked on drawers, his shaking hands making him miss the handles over and over. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, until he found it and he grabbed it so fast he sliced his thumb.

He came skidding back just as Ian’s head fell back against the arm of the sofa.

“No, no, no, no,” Mickey shouted, shaking Ian too roughly with his empty hand, afraid he was turning. “Wake up, wake up.”

Finally, Ian opened his eyes. He looked at Mickey, the bright green color of his eyes relieving Mickey somewhat. “So bossy,” Ian said. His voice was so soft Mickey barely caught it. Ian looked down at Mickey’s other hand. “What’s that?”

Mickey took a deep breath. He pulled the knife up and Ian instinctively skittered back a few inches, panic seemed to give him a burst of energy. “So you won’t shoot me, but you’ll cut me up? Come on, man,” Ian argued hysterically. 

“Just hold still,” Mickey said. He grabbed Ian’s arm and stretched it out, the bite wound still gushing blood, eyeing Ian’s forearm, desperation giving him tunnel vision. He was about to do this. This was about to happen. He didn't even pause to reconsider; all he could think about was saving Ian from turning.

“Oh my god,” Ian said. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh my god, oh my god.”

As Mickey raised the knife in both hands, his ears were ringing so loud he could barely hear Ian, it was almost like Mickey was watching the scene from across the room. He saw himself crouched over Ian, he saw the knife glinting in the afternoon sun, he saw the blade coming down in a whoosh on Ian’s wrist, he heard them both scream at contact, Ian's scream lasting longer and deeper, but it was like it was happening a million miles away. It wasn’t until the knife fell the to ground with a clattering sound that he came back to himself, almost with a whoosh, supporting Ian with one arm and scrambling to stop the bleeding with the other.

“Jesus christ, you cut off my arm,” Ian said dazedly. He was staring at his hand, lying disembodied on the hard wood floor, like he was looking at an unfamiliar piece of artwork.

Mickey pulled his shirt over his head and wrapped it around the end of Ian’s wrist, pressing down stem the bleeding as best he could and grabbing a pillow from the couch to add to the makeshift compression.

“Jesus,” Ian said again. He was looking at Mickey now. His eyes were still green.

“How do you feel?” Mickey asked urgently. He was practically yelling, too terrified to moderate the volume of his voice. “Do you feel anything?”

“Feel?” Ian seemed puzzled by the question. “Feel,” he said, like he was testing the word on his tongue. He frowned, concentrating.

Mickey pressed a hand to his forehead, his cheek, he didn’t know if zombies had a fever but he wanted to press against Ian, absorb him into himself, somehow keep him safe from the horror that had been cut away from him. 

He tightened his grip on Ian, just holding him, staring into his still-green eyes, waiting. He kept pressure on the wrist wound, but he was more focused on Ian’s eyes.

It had been longer than two minutes. Mickey was sure it had practically been five. If it were going to happen, it would’ve happened, he thought, but he wasn’t sure.

Finally, Ian blinked. “I feel…I think I’m okay.” He brought up his other hand to touch Mickey’s cheek but he was shaking so violently that he couldn’t quite rest it on Mickey’s skin. “I think I’m okay,” he said again, one corner of his mouth turning up. He was still paler than Mickey had ever seen, but his eyes were still green and bright.

Mickey burst into tears, laughing at the same time, sure he looked completely insane but he couldn’t help it, holding Ian tighter and kissing every inch of his face he could reach over and over. Ian tried feebly to kiss him back, until Mickey pulled back a little.

“Fuck, we need to get out of here,” Mickey said. Ian opened his mouth like he was going to agree, when his head wobbled on his neck and he went even paler than Mickey had ever thought possible.

“Ian?” he said, shaking him. “Ian! Ian, wake up.” But Ian wasn’t waking up, no matter how much Mickey called his name.

He hadn’t thought about blood loss. He hadn’t thought about anything but keeping Ian from turning. Now he just sat helpless, applying pressure to his gaping wound and watching Ian bleed out.

“Ian, wake up,” Mickey said, over and over, his sobs making the words clog in his throat. He clutched Ian to him like he could keep him with him through sheer strength of will. “Please don’t leave, please stay. I love you, please stay with me. I love you, I love you.”

But even those magic words didn’t seem to be enough. Mickey held Ian even as he felt the other boy go limp, his body lying lifelessly in Mickey’s arms, while Mickey could only sit and cry helplessly. Ian was gone, he thought to himself, the words repeating relentlessly in his head. Ian was gone. Ian was gone.


	15. Endings and Beginnings

The sun was coming through the windows of the farmhouse in dappled patterns, gingham curtains softening the light until the whole bedroom seemed to glow softly.

Outside, there were sounds of people getting up for the morning. Days started early in the country, especially away from any electricity grid that worked worth a damn. For now, they were dependent on daylight if they wanted to get anything done.

Even with the sounds of people milling about outside, it was a quiet morning. Carbondale was a far cry from downtown Chicago, hundreds of miles and days walking distance down south at the tip of Illinois, and without TVs or radios or cars or anything electronic to break the silence, it felt like every noise was muffled. Country life had a different rhythm, even at the end of the world. Things were slower. They sure as hell felt a lot sleepier.

Ian opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the brightness of the room. He reached out his left hand and met nothing but sheets and comforter. He was alone in the bed. He got up and pulled some pants on, struggling at the one-handed maneuver, before heading for the rest of the house.

“Morning, Captain Hook,” Carl said as Ian entered the kitchen. 

“Can you not, with the pirate jokes?” Ian said tiredly. He rubbed awkwardly at his bedhead with his left hand. He was still getting the hang of relying on it so completely.

“It’s so easy, though,” Carl argued. Ian looked to Fiona for support, who was buttering toast for Carl, but she just shrugged.

“I mean, he’s not wrong. It’s like fish in a barrel,” she replied. 

Ian rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the support.” He wasn’t mad, though. It felt hard to get mad over anything as he sat at the table and looked at what still felt like a dream: his siblings, at least three of them, grinning and teasing him. Well, Liam was quietly eating an apple. He seemed uninterested in pirate jokes, for which Ian was secretly grateful. Fiona poured him a cup of hot water with lemon and he took a deep sip. It was bitter, and he missed the hell out of coffee, but it was way better than nothing. 

“Where is he?” he asked after a while. He didn’t need to specify which he.

“I think he’s bossing Debbie around over by the barn,” Fiona said with a snort. “You’d think he grew up around cows, with what a know-it-all he is about them.”

Ian snorted. Fiona wasn’t exaggerating. He rubbed a hand over Carl’s shaggy head, making the littler boy squirm away from the touch. Fiona smiled at him as he left the kitchen.

He stopped in the bathroom to get a finger full of baking soda to rub at his teeth. Man he missed toothpaste almost as much as coffee, but again, hell of a lot better than nothing.

When he stepped out the front door into the daylight, he stopped for a second like he always did. He threw his head back and closed his eyes. It was just starting to cool into fall, and he loved the feeling of the crisp air on his face.

“How does a pirate ask his boyfriend out on a date?” 

Ian turned at the deep voice. Kev was striding his way, a baby in each arm. He nudged Ian jovially with an elbow. Ian sighed.

“I don’t know, Kev. How?”

Kev grinned widely. “Arrrrr you busy tonight?” And then he laughed. Excessively, in Ian’s opinion.

“They’re getting better every day, dude,” Ian said as he started walking toward the barn. 

“Tell that country boy of yours I said hey!” Kev called after him. Ian flipped him off over his shoulder.

The farm was more like a compound, but not as intense as the one they’d built in the neighborhood back in the city. It didn’t need to be. Here, they were protecting their property from other groups of survivors, not zombies, and survivors down south tended to be slightly less ravenous than the general Chicago land area. Ian walked past one of the outbuildings, waving at the lady in the yard with his bandaged wrist.

She waved back, but Ian didn’t stop to talk. He was still wary of this new neighborhood they’d acquired, even if it was smaller and seemed full of people who were a lot of more self-sufficient than their old neighbors in Chicago.

For now, Ian was happy being cordial and distant with the people in the compound. He just wanted to be with the people he loved. Fuck everyone else.

Nearly all their old neighbors had scattered. Fiona told Ian how the zombies had crashed upon the barricades, almost like thousands of birds throwing themselves against the same window, and Colin and Joey had resolved to try lighting the barricades on fire. But Colin and Joey had lost control of the flames. Ian had not been surprised to hear that part of the fucking story, that was for sure, the thought of Mickey’s other brothers still making Ian’s fists clenched. When the north barricade had gone down, Colin and Joey had been the first to run, the fucking cowards.

When the fires had spread to nearby buildings, the patrols had broken down, giving the zombies a chance to tear down the barricade. And when the barricade fell, it was chaos. Everyone fled. Fiona had waited a precious few days, holed up with Kev and Veronica in their upstairs bedroom, until Lip and Iggy had returned. By then, they couldn’t stay. The zombies were all over them. They’d slipped away just barely that night, heading to the perimeter of the city to wait. What had happened next still felt so delicate in its serendipity and simplicity that Ian had trouble reflecting on it directly, instead preferring to keep it in the periphery of his mind.

“Would you assholes shut up for two seconds so I can fucking talk?”

The sharp, angry voice carried across from the barn. Ian stopped to lean against a fence, listening to the male voice lecture and taking the time to just drink it in. Man, but he was a sap anymore. 

He heard that voice, and he thought of how it sounded gasping above him, saying he loved him, begging Ian to stay, not to go. At the time, Ian had been too dehydrated and weak from blood loss to respond, but in his wavering consciousness, he’d thought over and over, I’ll stay, I promise I’ll stay.

It had almost been like Mickey had heard him, because he’d propped Ian over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried him nearly three miles to the city limits.

Ian had only a vague memory of that time. He recalled the jolting sway as Mickey staggered under his weight. He remembered feeling sick to his stomach, and he remembered throwing up over Mickey’s shoulder, dizzy from the movement and the loss of blood. That was the only way Mickey had known for sure Ian wasn’t dead. He said he’d never been happier to be vomited on than in that moment. Which Ian couldn’t help thinking about, and asking about eventually.

They’d been curled up in bed a few nights ago, and Ian voiced the question that had been on his mind, since Mickey had filled him in on the details he’d missed in his semi-conscious state being dragged out of the city. “So what was the plan? You were just going to drag my corpse along with you? Live in sin with my dead body?”

Mickey scowled, even as he curled his fingers around Ian’s. “You weren’t dead, man. You just passed out, you woke up after a few blocks of me trying to carry your heavy ass.”

“But you thought I was dead at first,” Ian pressed. 

Mickey didn’t answer, like he was uncomfortable thinking about it. “Fuck, no I didn't. It was like my brain just, rejected the thought. I couldn't let you go." He coughed, obviously embarrassed at the admission. "Besides, you’re too fucking stubborn to just kick it. Who would annoy the hell out of me then?” Mickey tried to sound tough, but he wouldn’t look at Ian’s face. 

So Ian had relented, and just wrapped Mickey up tighter, spooning him close. “Yeah, you’re stuck with me, dickhead. Get used to it.”

Ian had let it go, because they were still uncomfortable with their good luck. This wasn’t something they were used to, Ian or Mickey especially. Things usually went from bad to worse to impossibly worse.

But in this case, it hadn’t. Ian had vomited the Vomit of Life, as he’d come to think of it in his head, and Mickey had set him down, and they’d re-bandaged his bleeding stump of a wrist as quick as they could, both too skittish to stay down for too long. So he’d let Mickey support most his weight, and they’d stumbled down the highway, weaving around broken-down cars. When they saw the sign for the city limits, Ian opened his mouth to tell Mickey. He was still so woozy, when he opened his mouth but heard a woman’s voice call out, he thought he’d somehow spoken the words himself. But then he heard them again.

“Ian!” It didn’t even sound like Fiona. It sounded like a shrieking, overwhelmed, panicked version of Fiona. She called again. “Ian! Mickey, over here! Ian!”

Ian peered through the brightness of the sun reflecting off the highway, and he just saw the familiar shape of his sister.

“The fuck…” Mickey muttered from beside him. “Is that…it’s Fiona.” He sounded just as disoriented as Ian felt. Maybe they were both hallucinating.

But then he heard Lip’s voice. And Iggy’s, calling for Mickey, and then they were all running for the two boys, who could only wait dumbly for their families to reach them.

“Goddamnit, never thought I’d be so happy to see your ugly fucking face,” Iggy yelled, pulling Mickey in for a rough hug that jostled Ian.

“Easy man,” Mickey cautioned, reaching out to steady Ian. Fiona and Debbie and Carl were pressing as close as they could to Ian. Lip stood back, watching Ian and Mickey sway together. Ian was too out of it to feel much of anything about Lip’s standoffishness at this point, so he just let the others hug him.

Approaching behind them were Kev and V, Kev trying to steady his pregnant wife as best her could.

“Look who decided to show the hell up already!” V called out. She was crying too though, nearly as hard as Fiona, as they gathered around the boys. Then they noticed Ian’s hand, and there was more pandemonium, Fiona demanding to know what happened and Carl asking how much it had hurt, and Ian had nearly passed out again at the commotion before Mickey made them all shut the fuck up while V examined the wound. It hadn’t been great, but she conceded that at least the bleeding was under control. And then his siblings had gone back to smothering him with hugs, even Lip edging closer, almost in spite of himself.

At that moment, in the baking sun in the middle of a highway packed with abandoned cars, being nearly squeezed to death by his family and held up by a boy who was willing to do anything to save him, Ian felt like maybe he really had died back at that house. For weeks after, he would wake up certain that he’d dreamed it. That he really had died. But he hadn’t. This was real.

Eventually Ian roused himself from his thoughts and wandered into the barn, propping a hip against the entrance to enjoy the view. Veronica and Debbie were watching intently as a short, long-haired brunet attempted to milk a grumpy-looking cow in front of one of the stalls. V and Debbie were valiantly keeping their giggles to themselves. 

“Looking good over there, dude,” Ian called out. 

Mickey glanced up immediately at Ian’s voice. He smirked and let go off the cow’s udder with one hand, flipping Ian off. “Go fuck yourself, Firecrotch.”

He went back to the cow, a smile on his face even as he lectured V and Debbie roughly on what he’d learned so far about milking. Granted, Mickey was a rough touch with the cows and they didn’t seem to trust him, but he was definitely improving. Against all odds, he seemed to be cottoning to the country life faster than anyone else.

He’d initially resisted the idea, nearly kicking and screaming at the idea of pushing further south. He’d been ready to set up shop in Kankakee County, and did not understand the others’ need to keep pushing south, further down, as deep into the country as they could. They walked for over a week, stopping to let Ian rest and for V to clean his wound. It was slow going, but every time they wanted to stop they felt the need to push on. 

When he’d seen the sign that welcomed them to the outer limits of Carbondale, he’d let out a moan. “Fucking southern Illinois? Really? Has it come to this?”

But as soon as they’d found an empty house, as soon as they’d talked their way into staying alongside a handful of nervous country folk that had stayed huddled onto the land of one farming community through the initial madness of the zombies (or as soon as Mickey had threatened their way onto the compound, either/or), Mickey had grown almost instantly demanding in his curiosity. Iggy had seemed surprising intrigued as well, and he’d followed Mickey around as he pestered the farmers, wanting to know how the fuck you milked a cow, what kind of shit chickens ate, if you could plant food all year round or just some months. Mickey and Iggy had become especially close to two old, crotchety farmers who had begrudgingly taken him under their wing, which didn’t surprise Ian at all since Mickey had always been the grumpiest old man he’d ever met, even at eighteen.

Ian teased him about it, but very gently, usually only when Mickey wouldn’t let Ian sleep because he was busy talking his ear off about some obscure farming knowledge he’d learned that day.

“You know I want to celebrate your newfound love of the land, but you really need to shut the fuck up,” he would mutter into his pillow, turning away as Mickey continued to describe the marvels of the soy crop cycle or some shit, jesus christ.

Seeing his enthusiasm as he worked in the barn this morning though made Ian smile goofily to himself. He waited until the lesson was over and V and Debbie each hauled a full pail of milk to the ice shed. Ian pulled on Debbie’s long braid as she passed.

“You need to tell your boy to chill, Peg Leg Pete,” V grumbled in his ear. “These early-morning drill sessions are getting out of control.”

“Maybe if you wouldn’t bitch so much, you wouldn’t need to be told how to milk a cow for the fourth fucking time!” Mickey called from behind her, but Ian just rolled his eyes.

As Mickey got up from the stool and led the cow back into her stall, Ian sidled over.

“We got to get you some overalls, man,” Ian said. He slipped his left arm around Mickey’s waist. “Help you fit in with all your new farming buddies.”

Mickey reached automatically to wrap his hand around Ian’s right wrist, a few inches above where his hand used to be. He always held him there, like he couldn’t help himself. Ian caught him staring at it all the time, his eyes troubled, but they rarely talked about it. His hand was gone, but he wasn’t a zombie. As far as Ian was concerned, that was the end of it.

“You want to go swimming later?” Ian asked, hooking a finger in the waistband of Mickey’s jeans. They were close to the Mississippi River now, and it was Ian’s favorite thing to do, dragging Mickey away to swim and goof off, and fuck around in the shade of the trees near the water.

“Dude, I got shit to do,” Mickey whined. Ian gave him a face, pushed his chin out in that way he knew Mickey was powerless to resist, and the older boy rolled his eyes. “God, so needy these days. Fine. Let’s grab some food first, I’m starving.”

They headed back to the house to grab lunch to take with them. They didn’t hold hands on the way, but every few steps Ian would let his fingers drag against Mickey’s hand, and Mickey would scowl and swat at him, and Ian would grin, and it was enough. 

Mickey carried their knapsack of sandwiches, even though Ian complained that he wasn’t a fucking invalid. Mickey wouldn’t relent though, and Ian gave up as they walked toward the river. The tingle at the end of his wrist bothered him most when he felt like Mickey was coddling him, but it also left him in wonder. Mickey had saved his life.

Even Lip had been at a loss to explain how Mickey had managed to stem the spread of the virus.

“Fucking dumb luck,” he’d guessed, after thinking about it for a minute.

Lip had left weeks ago. He was obsessed with figuring out the zombies behavior, and it didn’t take a genius to see how desperate he was for the distraction. He never talked about Mandy, none of them really did, which Ian thought was kind of shitty. Mandy deserved to be remembered, and he planned to tackle the subject one day soon. But until then, the zombies were all Lip wanted to talk about, and he’d been relentless in his quest to get as much information as possible out of Mickey and Ian and the rest of the Gallaghers about their last day in the South Side.

Ian and Mickey tried to explain what it had been like, the way the zombies seemed to be herding them, getting them to leave. How even though Ian had been attacked, it hadn’t felt the same as before. It hadn’t felt like they wanted to feed. Mickey usually got frustrated at the memory, irritated at what he couldn’t understand and eventually told Lip to shut up. Ian knew it bothered Mickey that he couldn’t explain what had happened. He hated not knowing why the zombies had let them go.

“Maybe they’re evolving beyond that,” Lip had offered.

Mickey had practically sputtered. “Would you fucking listen to yourself, man? Evolved beyond what, the need to fucking feed?”

Mickey had tried to explain the look the zombie had given Ian when it had bitten him, almost surprised, like it wanted to take it back.

“What did it look like, exactly?” Lip pressed. 

“It was a zombie, dude,” Mickey said irritably. “I don’t fucking speak zombie, how the hell should I know?”

Lip had a few ideas on why the zombies wanted them out of the city. He had a few theories on why the more rural areas were safer for humans, why survivors had left the cities en masse and the zombies had migrated in the other direction. He said it had something to do with ecosystem shift, how animals in an ecosystem adjust to shifts in apex predator populations and prey differentials, but it had mostly gone over Ian’s head.

He'd overheard Lip as he explained his thoughts to Veronica one night when all of them had been sitting on the porch, enjoying the last few rays of daylight. This was after Veronica had had her twins, a harrowing seven hours no one on the farm had any willingness to repeat. Lip had hovered over the babies after that, seeming to cling to them and allowing Veronica to mother him in a way he resisted from Fiona, and that he flat-out rejected from Ian or his other siblings.

A month after arriving at the farm, they woke up and Lip was gone. He’d left a note for Mickey, but hadn’t said goodbye to the rest of them. He’d mentioned his desire to leave to Fiona once before, but she was as surprised as any of them. 

He wanted to study the zombies, his note to Mickey had said, and he needed to be the fuck alone for a while, and this seemed like the only way to do it. He’d come back eventually, so they better stick around fucking Carbondale so he could find them again.

The letter had been long, but Mickey hadn’t let Ian read it, stuffing it in his pocket after he’d read it through.

“He’ll come back, don’t fucking worry. He’s a grown-ass man,” Mickey insisted, but his nose and eyes were red, and Ian knew the note had talked about Mandy. Ian had left him alone for the rest of the day, and when Mickey had silently rolled him over in bed, Ian had let him ride into the mattress that night, knowing the older boy needed to forget about everything, at least for while.

Today though, Ian felt oddly light. The river came into view, and Ian nudged Mickey, breaking into a run. Mickey swore and raced him to the river’s edge, both yanking at their shirts and jumping into the cool water. They swam and splashed each other and rough housed until Ian’s eyes were drooping and Mickey was stretching, his smile sleepy. 

Mickey climbed up the bank, turning to yank Ian up behind him. It was hard to pull himself up one-handed, and he squeezed Mickey’s hand in thanks. They collapsed next to each other on the bank and started eating the sandwiches they’d packed.

“Want to hear a pirate pick up line?” Ian asked as they lounged on the sandy bank.

Mickey rolled his eyes. He hated the pirate jokes more than Ian, because they made him feel guilty, but he eyed Ian indulgently. “Tell me your pirate pick up line, you loser.”

Ian put his left hand on Mickey’s shoulder nearest to him. “If you were a pirate, would you want a parrot on this shoulder,” he reached his hand around so it reached Mickey’s other shoulder, snaking his arm around the older boy in the process, “or this shoulder?”

Mickey stared at him, realizing that Ian had craftily wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and started snorting. He moved to shove Ian away. “Jesus, that was bad.”

But Ian pulled him back, unwilling to let Mickey go. Mickey was still laughing, but suddenly Ian couldn’t help but swallow the laughter with his mouth, with his tongue, sweeping the sound form the other boy with a kiss that was immediately more intense than he planned it to be. Mickey made a surprised sound in the base of his throat. 

Ian spread Mickey out beneath him, yanking on his jeans until Mickey was naked, then slowing down, gazing over the other boy’s naked body and feeling his throat go dry. Mickey was blushing under Ian’s stare, but he was smiling too, and Ian began to smile too as he watched Mickey arch his back a little bit for his benefit, Ian’s eyes catching on the way Mickey’s hips canted forward and the muscles in his abdomen flexed.

Still grinning, Ian leaned down and took Mickey into his mouth, working Mickey’s cock to full hardness, relishing the taste on his tongue. The sounds Mickey was making were perfect, soft moans and whines as Ian increased the suction of his mouth, the way Mickey jerked and tried to thrust into Ian’s mouth were perfect, even as Ian held him down with one firm grip on his hip, forcing Mickey to stay still as Ian brought him to pieces. When he looked up and locked eyes with Mickey as he took his cock all the way to the base, the expression on Mickey’s face turned rapt, and he was coming almost immediately, Ian cotinuing to nurse his cock until Mickey made a low sound and nudged him off. 

Cheeks flushed, Mickey leaned up so he was sitting facing Ian, pulling the redhead’s cock out of his pants and jerking him off, staring into his eyes until Ian couldn’t take it and swooped in to capture Mickey’s mouth in a kiss. As Mickey slowly brought him off, the orgasm creeping up his spine like fire, in that moment Ian didn’t think there was any better way to come than with Mickey’s hot hands on his cock and his mouth warm on his, their bodies pressed together, and then Ian was coming hard, panting into Mickey’s mouth. 

Ian collapsed back, Mickey leaning forward to rest his elbows on Ian’s chest, watching Ian try to catch his breath.

“Man, I love you,” Mickey breathed. Ian brought his head up and stared at him, but Mickey didn’t look away. It was the first time Ian had heard him say it without being in the throes of terrible danger, and as he looked at Mickey’s small, almost shy smile, he knew it was worth the wait.

The sun was warm on his face, and he wanted to lighten the sudden heaviness of the moment, so instead of saying it back he poked Mickey in the side and grinned. “Same,” he said, and Mickey rolled his eyes and pulled Ian into a headlock. They wrestled a little, rolling over a few times, until they fell back panting, Ian pulling Mickey against his chest. 

God, what a surprise this life was now. What a surprise all of this was. Lip had been right, Ian supposed. Nobody expects the zombie apocalypse. Ian smiled and pulled Mickey closer to his chest, letting himself drift off into a nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end, even I was powerless not to give these boys the best happy ending I could, zombies or not. So sue me, I'm a sucker. Plus, I want to re-visit this universe in a series of one-shots in the future (Lip coming back form his travels, Mickey becoming an adorable farming aficionado, Ian working to get used to his handicap, the gang of city-slickers adjusting to their new lives in the country, etc.), so we'll be seeing Zombie Shameless again soon I think.
> 
> Until then, I wanted to thank you all for your support. It's been such a blast getting your feedback and encouragement. I can't wait to keep writing for this fandom! I've got a ton of other ideas in mind. In short: You dudes is awesome. :)
> 
> ETA: come hang out on Tumblr: ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com


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